Mary Sue in the 18th Century
by Arsinoe de Blassenville
Summary: An anthology of time travel tales involving the delightful Colonel Tavington. Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis: Part 10, The Past is Prologue. The adventure concludes. More travels, a reunion in Ireland, and Marcus Aurelius receives a stunning revelation.
1. Tea With Tavington

An anthology of time travel tales involving the delightful Colonel Tavington. Some will be humorous, some will be satires, some will be serious. First, as a light entertainment, the author presents for your consideration:

**Episode One: Tea with Tavington. **

"Oh, my God, they're here already!" Hands patted unfamiliar caps in place, 21st century feet in 18th century shoes stumbled a little, trying to negotiate the long, full petticoats. Kathleen was passing out pins to everyone needing last minute adjustments.

"We could use a better mirror," Genevieve said, jostling for a look. Arsinoe gave an unladylike snort.

"Leave those truffles alone!" Summer stood guard by the table, glaring at Stephanie. "These refreshments are perfect, and they're going to _stay_ perfect until our guys see them, or you're out of here!" A small and obnoxious ball of fur growled at her. Summer snarled, _"And your little dog, too!"_

Stephanie withdrew her questing hand, with a charming smile. She bent down to comfort the her frantic pet, "Come here, Lucius sweetie."

Eyes were rolled.

Arsinoe ducked into the small study off the parlour. "Margaret, is everything ready to go?"

Margaret, soberly attired in crisp black silk, had already switched on the Tavcams, and laid out her notebook and pen. She watched the men's approach through the lace curtains and shook her head.

"I still have serious reservations about this. I think you'll find meeting men from such a different time and culture more awkward than you realize."

Arsinoe shrugged. "Possibly you're right, but it's too late to back out now. We've all been oriented, and the participants have promised to do their best. And it's only for three hours!" Margaret raised her brows skeptically. Arsinoe, secretly very nervous herself, but doing her utmost to hide it, added. "We'll save you some cake, unless the Green Dragoons eat it all."

Margaret shook her head, but smiled; and sat down to carefully document every moment of the time travelers' interactions with the men of the 18th century.

Outside the quiet of the study, the other ladies were engaged in last minute primping. Tracy, dressed in half-mourning, befitting her persona as widow, was queenly in hunter green trimmed with black. "I still wish I could have worn my helmet."

"No uniforms," prosed Arsinoe, the irritating killjoy. "Research indicates that they'll respond better to us dressed as ladies. And we all look splendid. One last reminder," she raised her voice, "do not use the term 'okay.' They won't understand it. OK?"

"OK."

"OK."

"OK."

"Okey-dokey."

"Very funny."

Summer wriggled a little, smoothing the cherry-red figured gown down around the bodice, and shaking out her petticoat, striped with white and the same cherry-red. "I don't mind the corset for one day, but it would be torture to live like this all the time!"

"I don't know," shrugged Caitlin, "It's not much worse than an underwire bra. What I can't get used to is no panties. I feel naked—except for the corset, the false rump and all the hoops, of course." She straightened the ribbons at her sleeves, silver against the dark green of her gown. The pale green petticoat was trimmed with silver as well.

"Well," Tracy pointed out grimly, "You won't miss the panties if you need to use the 'retiring room.' You'll be glad not to have to manage underwear when you're trying to hike up everything else."

"Hence my decision to not drink any tea," Genevieve said, looking virtuous. She was learning to move very slowly, so as not to soil or damage the shining lavender gown. It was restrictive, yes; but it was also wonderful to look like a princess.

Outside, the horsemen were drawing up to the virtual plantation house. The virtual ladies inside strained to listen to the conversation. Tavington—yes, it _was_ Tavington-was coming up to the verandah steps to do the polite, and ask if they could water their horses. Obviously, he was going to water his horse anyway, but he deserved points for good form.

Bordon and Wilkins were with him. How nice. They looked very tired and dusty, poor dears, and eager grins were exchanged, as Arsinoe opened the door to greet them. She hissed at them, "_Remember_ now, _no_ touching, _no_ jostling, _no _pushing. Walk gracefully, and curtsey the way we've practiced!"

"I feel like an idiot," Cassandra groaned. "I can't believe this dress." It was stiff rustling silk taffeta in a dark blue, contrasting attractively with the white lace elbow ruffles and fichu at her neckline.

"Well, you look very nice," Arsinoe assured her. "Just don't fall over when you curtsey."

Stephanie was still admiring her lovely creamy gown, embroidered with bunches of pink and purple flowers. She sighed happily and took her place out on the verandah, fan fluttering.

Kathleen asked anxiously, "Is my cap on straight?" There had been some groans over the caps: a plentiful assortment of muslin, lace, and gauze, in many styles. Short hair needed to be covered. Bangs needed to be camouflaged. Even longer hair did not always lend itself to 18th century styles. Some, like Stephanie, Cassandra and Summer, chose little pinner caps, setting daintily atop their head; or, like Arsinoe, Caitlin, Genevieve, round ear caps to gather up hair, edged with ruffled brims. Tracy had a rather elaborate _grande coiffure_ gauze and lace cap, trimmed with black. Kathleen had chosen a lappet cap, with long panels of lacy fabric coming down on either side. It was a nice effect with the pretty peach gown and creamy petticoat. And the cap, luckily, _was_ straight.

The officers looked up, surprised to be confronted by seven well-dressed ladies. Tavington gave them a small, pleased smile. Wilkins and Bordon looked at each other, and Wilkins raised his brows with anticipation. Bordon turned his attention to the ladies and simply admired.

"Good day to you, ladies," Tavington greeted them, and there were some coos and moans from the silks and muslins on the veranda. Arsinoe breathed sharply through her nose, and moved forward to respond, dark yellow skirts swaying like a bell. He introduced himself. "William Tavington. Green Dragoons. And this is Captain Bordon and Captain Wilkins."

Caitlin realized that she was mouthing the Tavington and Green Dragoon bits and stopped herself, embarrassed. Looking around, she saw she hadn't been the only one.

"How do you do, gentlemen? I am Arsinoe de Blassenville. Welcome to Fandom Hall."

The officers bowed low and gracefully, and ladies curtseyed, all terribly self-conscious. It was largely successful, with only one soft ripping sound as they rose. Cassandra groaned quietly, and Summer whispered, "Don't worry, you can't see anything wrong."

Wilkins looked around at the mansion construct, impressed. "I didn't know this house was even here."

A sneer briefly flickered across Tavington's handsome face; but he plainly decided to disregard Wilkins, and asked the ladies very politely, "If it is no inconvenience to you, may we water and care for our horses here?"

"No inconvenience at all," Stephanie assured them, waving her fan airily.

Arsinoe said, with an uneasy glance at Stephanie, "By all means, gentlemen. The well is east of the house. We regret we have no grooms to assist you." Stephanie jabbed her with her fan, and Arsinoe continued, "We were about to serve tea. Would you care to join us?"

Very gratefully, Tavington said, "That is most kind, Madam. I thank you for myself and my officers."

Entranced, the ladies gazed happily at their retreating backs. "Oh my God," squeaked Cassandra. "It's them, it's really them. It's _him_."

Caitlin walked to the end of the veranda and peeked around. "They're washing their faces and hands too."

Everyone started crowding to the corner of the house, trying to look. Arsinoe felt things slipping out of hand. "Come on in the house. You can stare of them through the windows. It won't look as weird if they notice us."

Reluctantly they all trooped back in. Everyone was grinning nervously. Arsinoe opened the study door. "Margaret! Did you get all that!"

"Yes. I got them and I got all of you giggling like six-year olds."

"Well, it _is_ pretty fantastic."

"I have work to do. Look, they're coming around to the front of the house again."

"Later."

She came back into the parlour and found everyone speaking in abnormally high voices. "Calm down!" With an effort, the time travelers pulled themselves together. "I'm going to open the door and introduce you all. Some of you have _personae _of Continental sympathizers, so it won't do to gush over them right away. Just be cool and polite."

"Easier said than done," muttered Kathleen.

The officers had returned and were up the steps and to the door with the ease of lithe, athletic men. Arsinoe opened the door with a smile. Her nose twitched as she realized that they also had the distinctive odor of lithe, athletic men who had been riding horses all day. Genevieve, who thought they should have been offered baths from the get-go, raised her eyebrows with an "_I told you so_" expression. Arsinoe scowled back.

"Ladies, may I present Colonel Tavington, Captain Bordon, and Captain Wilkins?" Fans fluttered a little faster. "Gentlemen, this is:" (she took a deep breath) "Mrs Tracy Smith, Mme. Stephanie Du Maurier, Miss Caitlin McLeod, Miss Cassandra Deacon, Miss Genevieve Norton, Miss Kathleen Singleton, and Miss Summer Whitesell."

The gentlemen bowed again. The ladies urged said gentlemen to make themselves at home. The officers were gently herded toward the table and the waiting, lovingly prepared comestibles.

Tavington plainly liked Stephanie's gown. "You are French, madam?"

"Only my husband," smiled Stephanie, with a gesture that dismissed absent French husbands to oblivion.

Tavington found himself literally face-to-face with Tracy. He looked a little uncertain, obviously unused to a woman looking him straight in the eye. "Mrs Smith." Tracy's smile looked alarmingly predatory.

Arsinoe heard Wilkins whisper to Bordon. "They certainly are well-grown ladies. Mrs. Smith isn't much shorter than me!"

Bordon whispered back, "I'm more impressed by their teeth! Aren't they magnificent!" Wilkins nodded, looking friendly but a little dazed.

"Do let me get you some tea," Summer cooed to Tavington. "How do you take it?" She efficiently served the three men tea to their individual tastes, and then urged them to sample the refreshments.

Bordon beamed at Kathleen, "Miss Singleton, how delightful to find loyalty to the King in such a pleasant place."

Kathleen looked a little embarrassed. She didn't want to be a Tory, or even pretend to be one, and said, "It's really not so much loyalty as hospitality, Captain." Bordon, sensitive to her unspoken reservations, bowed gallantly. Kathleen was rather touched: it was nice to be treated like this.

Wilkins had been chatting with Caitlin, and observed, "Miss-McLeod, you don't sound like you are from the Carolinas."

"No, sir, I was born in England, but grew up near Boston."

"A long way from home. I hear it's a real stronghold of rebellion."

Caitlin was not going to let that go unchallenged. "There are a lot of very nice people in Boston—like John and Abigail Adams." Wilkins raised his brows, but Caitlin changed the subject. "Try these brownies, Captain. I brought them."

Wilkins had a brownie, and then another brownie. "These are mighty fine, ladies. Do they have _chocolate_ in them?"

Tavington heard this confirmed and came over to sample the brownies himself. "Delicious. Is this what they're having in Boston?"

"It was the last time I was there," Caitlin declared.

Bordon had overheard them and asked excitedly, "Where is _chocolate_?"

The brownies didn't last long. Summer showed them the handmade chocolate truffles and explained what they were. They were consumed with great respect and many fervent compliments. Arsinoe had wondered if they were overdoing the food, but seeing the officers eat, she was reminded of her daughter's teenaged boyfriends. Lithe, athletic men can chow down like nobody's business.

Summer leaned over, revealing cleavage and offering a tray of sandwiches, "Chicken, Colonel?"

"No, he's not!" Genevieve contradicted impulsively. "I mean—" Tavington gave her a polite, interested look, not understanding the slang. "I mean—" she tried again. "Oh, I don't know what I mean. Have another sandwich."

Cassandra whispered confidentially in Tavington's ear, "Be careful what you say around her. I've heard she's a spy!"

"Dear me!" exclaimed Tavington, pulling his face straight with an effort. He smiled winning at Cassandra, and she felt herself melting. "Perhaps your friend will tell the rebels I have a weakness for chocolate. And—" he smiled graciously, "charmingly hospitable Colonial ladies."

Caitlin and Kathleen stood enraptured. Kathleen realized that her cheeks were starting to hurt. _Too much smiling. _She tried to assume a serious expression. Tavington smiled at her again, and her lips curled in irresistible delight. _Ow._

Bordon saw Arsinoe disappear into the study for a moment, and beyond her, glimpsed a lady in black. "There is another lady who has not joined us."

"Cousin Margaret," explained Genevieve. "She's in mourning and indisposed to receive gentlemen."

Wilkins and Tavington overheard, and expressed their concern. "If our presence is an intrusion—" Tavington said reluctantly.

Tracy broke in reassuringly, "No intrusion at all. She'd be reading and writing in her journal anyway. Pay no attention to the lady in the study." She had a little inward laugh at the reference to _The Wizard of Oz._

Arsinoe came back into the parlor and told the officers, "I was just seeing to Cousin Margaret, gentlemen." All in all, she was encouraged. The men were eating heartily but nicely, and mixing well. None of the ladies had as yet lost her head and grabbed. Tavington was the center of attention, and was enjoying the conversation.

"You're so different from the rumors," Cassandra told him frankly.

Tavington raised a brow. "Rumors?"

"Rumors," Cassandra repeated, with a dark look.

"Awful rumors," Kathleen supplemented.

"_Dreadful_ rumors, Colonel," confided Genevieve, with a delicate shudder. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and shuddered again, enjoying the play of light on the lavender silk.

Arsinoe cut in, giving her companions a glare, "I think, despite our differences, we can all agree to be civil over tea."

"Civil?" smirked Tavington.

"_Civil as an orange, Colonel_," Arsinoe quoted severely. He was rather younger than she, after all.

Summer remarked to no one in particular, "I hate orange."

Bordon noticed the pianoforte. "May I ask if any of you ladies could favor us with music?" Tavington and Wilkins looked up, hopeful and interested.

Tracy gave Arsinoe an expressive stare. With a pretense of reluctance, Arsinoe modestly murmured, "Well, I suppose-" instantly going to the instrument and sitting down cautiously to her carefully prearranged music. The false cork rump was really distracting.

Seizing her chance, Tracy settled her voluminous skirts around her on the sofa, and asked, "Why don't you sit down, Colonel?"

Tavington, seeing the crowd already seated there, mildly protested, "I'm not sure—"

Tracy was not to be put off. "I'm sure," she said, with the look of a wolf about to order lambchops, "that we can _squeeze you in_." She gave Cassandra a shove, and a Tavington-sized space was hastily arranged. Tracy patted it invitingly. A little warily, Tavington sat. The space was perhaps somewhat small: so small that he found his thighs compressed on either side by a smiling lady. Tracy and Cassandra were smug: the less fortunate ladies were a little disgruntled.

Arsinoe was at last finished fidgeting at the pianoforte, and sang _"Art Thou Troubled?"_ and _"What Can We Poor Females do?"_ The officers praised and applauded, and Caitlin growled to Genevieve, "They shouldn't encourage her."

Arsinoe naturally surrendered to the desires of her (male) audience, and encored with _"Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck I."_ The ladies had finally found a proper use for fans: demurely hiding crazed grins. It was a very pretty song, and the officers were innocently unaware of any hidden meaning. Lucius, the wretched little dog, displayed an interest in Tavington's booted leg, and began rubbing against it in a lamentably wanton way. The Butcher of the Carolinas displayed his good breeding by not kicking the dog into the hereafter; and merely gathered the creature up and presented it to its owner with unruffled tranquility. Summer went to refill the teapot and have a giggle in the kitchen.

What she saw through the kitchen window filled her with dismay. She came back and whispered to Arsinoe (now finished with her song), "Here comes trouble. Those fangirls followed us, and they're coming to the back door."

Arsinoe's lips thinned severely. The fangirls had not been invited, and she was not about to allow gatecrashers at their immensely expensive, delightfully exclusive tea party. She excused herself, and went to the back door to assess the situation.

Dressed in a bizarre combination of pirate gear, Continental uniforms, Native American garb, and wizarding robes, a motley crew of screaming fangirls crowded at the back door, trying to batter their way in. Stephanie's little Lucius raced to the door, yapping wildly.

"Squee!" " Squee!" "We know you're in there!" "We want Tavvie!"

The officers looked at each other in alarm.

"What _is_ that horrid noise?" asked Bordon, concerned.

"Fangirls," Kathleen blurted out. Summer elbowed her. "I mean—rebels."

"Very bad, dangerous rebels," Genevieve elaborated.

"They're really revolting," Stephanie agreed.

"And some of them _are_ spies," declared Cassandra.

"Mad, bad, evil revolutionaries who are the enemies of peace and sanity," Arsinoe told them firmly, coming back into the parlor. "We live under constant threat."

Caitlin lamented, "They're going to ruin our party! What a shame!"

Arsinoe silently agreed. _It's a shame the things that happen when you haven't got a gun._

Wilkins rose to his not inconsiderable height. "Don't you worry, ladies. We know how to deal with rebels."

Tavington purred, "Indeed we do." He summoned his officers with a commanding gesture. Striding to the back of the house, the red-clad soldiers drew their swords with a manly metallic hiss. The ladies exchanged glances, feeling rather swoony.

Stephanie observed, "They're going to defend us. That is so sweet." No one could deny it, and there were unanimous, thoughtful nods.

"And they were already so tired," Caitlin said sadly.

Summer looked over the remains of the refreshments. "They'll be hungry when they're done."

Kathleen nodded. "Maybe they should stay for supper?"

Cassandra agreed. "They might be hurt and need nursing."

"Or a nice, hot bath," suggested Genevieve.

"With a massage," added Tracy with a glint in her eye.

Arsinoe sighed. Two hours to go. Maybe Margaret had been right, after all. _I'll just take it_ o_ne problem at a time._


	2. Mary Sue in Uniform

Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction. That means I own none of the rights to the film The Patriot. But you already know that.

For your reading pleasure, the tale of a time traveler who makes no concessions to Tavington's world...

Episode 2: MarySue in Uniform

Megan swaggered past the Green Dragoon tents, pleased at how the tight breeches showed off her legs. She had jumped at the chance to go back in time for hour to meet that gorgeous hunk, Colonel William Tavington, but she couldn't be bothered with stupid skirts.

The frumpy women who did totally boring things like laundry and cooking whispered as she went past.

"Is that a woman?"

"It must be! Look at the paint on her face!"

"Unnatural, I call it! The Lord says it's an abomination!"

Megan shrugged. _Dumbass._ You couldn't pay attention to what the Bible said all the time, or you wouldn't be able to eat bacon or shrimp either. Modern people knew how to pick and choose the relevant bits and trash the rest.

Omigod! Omigod There he was! He was standing there in his gorgeousness, talking to some fat girl in a big puffy dress. Megan strolled past, and gave him a sultry look. He frowned, and his eyes followed her.

Megan ran off to the edge of the woods, skipping past a wagon. She heard footsteps following her, and smoothed her hair back. Then she held her hand up to her mouth, and checked her breath. Everything was cool.

A strong hand grabbed her shoulder, and spun her around. _Omigod, he's so alpha male!_

"Who are you?"

She shivered at the fierce look in those bright, bright eyes. _Oooh! I'm melting!_

She tried to be cool, but she couldn't stop giggling. "I'm Megan Tardowsky." _Oh, shit, I was going to say 'Trinity Valentine!'_

He frowned again, at her odd name, and then asked. "What are you doing in my camp? You seemed very interested in our dispositions."

What is he talking about? His disposition?

She tried to answer in a low, sexy voice. "Well, I've heard so much about the Green Dragoons." She batted her eyes. "I just had to see them for myself."

His hand on her shoulder gripped her so hard it hurt. "I think you're a spy!" He yanked her out of the tree cover, and started pulling her along with him.

"No way!" she squawked. "I am _so_ not a spy, I just wanted to get a good look at you. I think you're totally hot!"

He stopped, and looked at her again, puzzled.

"I'm _what?"_

"Attractive," Megan corrected herself. "Very, very attractive. Like, I've been thinking about you for a long time."

He smirked at her. "I see. A whore." He pulled her back toward the woods, pushed her up against a tree, and started unbuttoning his breeches. "How much, then?"

_Whoa!_ "I'm not a -whore!" she protested. "How can you think that? I just wanted to meet you!"

He stopped unbuttoning, and eyed her with disgust. "So you dress like a molly and parade about my camp? What kind of creature are you?"

"I hate skirts!" she said, with spirit. "They're so -dorky!"

He looked at her blankly. Then he said, "Get out of my camp, and don't come back." He turned, and walked away.

"Hey! Wait!" she yelled, running after him. "I'm talking to you!"

She grabbed his arm, and he pushed her away roughly.

She watched his retreating back, mad as hell, and kicked at the ground. "Jerk!"

She sulked for awhile.

_That didn't go the way I planned_.

She pulled up her sleeve and checked her watch. _I can't go back to my time for half an hour! What am I going to do?_

She was aware of an uncomfortable ache, and then a tell-tale trickle. _Oh shit! My period! It's not due for three days!_

She walked quickly toward a group of woman scrubbing clothes. "Hi! Can I borrow a Tampax off one of you guys?"

They stared at her. She tried again. Stupid old-time women. "My period started, and I need a Tampax, or a Kotex, or a Playtex." Her voice rose, as she got more annoyed. "Or _whatever_ you guys use."

They stared, and looked at each other. One of the women looked at her breeches. "You're bleeding, girl."

"Yes, I _know!"_ Megan rolled her eyes_. God, these people were dumb!_ "I need something to protect my pants with!"

The woman got up, uncertainly. "I have some rags you could use." She pulled some yellowed bits of cloth from a box. She suggested, "Maybe you could pin your shirt between your legs?"

_Maybe you could pin your brain between your ears! _The rags really were rags, and had stains on them. _Gross!_

_"Thanks!"_ she said, sarcastically. "Now where's the bathroom?"

More stares. Megan tried speaking slowly and loudly, the way you did with retards. "The BATHROOM, THE LADIES' ROOM—THE TOILET!"

One of the old women didn't seem to have all her teeth. Megan could hardly stand to look at her. The old woman mumbled, pointing, "The latrine's over there."

Megan stamped away. _What a total waste of space._

There was no bathroom, either, just a long trench in the ground, and soldiers squatting there with their pasty-white butts showing. It was absolutely the nastiest thing Megan had ever seen, so she turned and ran off to the woods again. She had to unbutton the breeches, and start stuffing in the disgusting rags. She knew she was making bulges in her pants, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to get out of this lame place and get home. She'd dump the clothes, have a shower, and then hang out.

Somebody was walking around in the woods, and Megan hurried with the pants so she wouldn't end up mooning the whole world. She finished, and pulled down her jacket, and turned toward the footsteps.

A guy in ragged clothes was hiding behind a tree, pointing his gun at her.

"Wait!" she yelled. "I'm on your side!"

She heard a "pop" and was knocked down.

She tried to get up, but couldn't. She felt weak all of a sudden, and her jacket was wet.

_What's the matter with me_? she wondered.

Then it started to hurt, and she felt lightheaded, like she was rushing through the air.

"No fair!" she croaked. "No fair!"

She tried to call for help, but she was too sleepy……


	3. Mary Sue Without a Clue

Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction. That means I own none of the rights to the film _The Patriot_. But you already know that. 

_Genre: fantasy. Not a comedy, this time._

_Not everyone knows what to do when opportunity knocks. Some don't even realize that it has..._

_

* * *

_

**Episode 3: Mary Sue Without a Clue**

"But he's gorgeous!" Katie sighed dreamily. "I'd give anything to live back in those days. Did you see her gowns?" Katie spun around, pantomiming flowing skirts. "Imagine being dressed like that, and going to balls."

"The music sucks, though," Brooke said, with little interest. She was much more interested in the way her new manicure looked under the fluorescent lights. She had considered some cute little Kanji as the design, but she couldn't read Japanese, and the little oriental lady at the salon probably would have made them say something nasty.

"Yeah, but I could deal with that. He's soooo hot!" Katie opened the guidebook to her favorite picture of him. "There's nothing like a man in uniform. At least, old-time uniforms. Uniforms nowadays look lame."

They were fangirls, pure and simple. At least Katie was. Brooke had come along to the outdoor museum because she had nothing else to do, and because Katie had promised to take her to TacoBurgerznMore afterward. Brooke used to like Katie's guy, but now she only liked Orlando.

"Oh, hey! Check out this creepy little gift shop! I bet they have great discounts!" Katie gestured to a shabby-looking store. Inside, a nice older woman behind the counter kept trying to tell them stuff about history. The girls ignored her, and looked at some of the jewelry instead.

"I want to try that one on!" Katie squealed. She pointed at a really pretty silver locket on a velvet ribbon, almost hidden away in the corner of the display case. When the shop lady took it out for her to look at, she could see it had strange designs on it. It was something to buy, and it looked kind of Goth when she fastened it around her neck. Katie's boyfriend was into that Goth stuff.

"Great," Brooke commented without much interest, wondering if she should go with the darker shade of nail polish next time.

It was a lot of money, but it was really cool, and it would look neat with her dress for prom.

"I can't get it open," she complained to the saleslady. There was some plastic or something over the latch.

"Did you want to buy it?" asked the lady. She gave Katie a funny smile. "It's a very special piece: you need to know more about it."

"No, I guess not," said Katie. She took off the necklace, tossed it down onto the counter, and turned away. She wanted to save her money for shoes. She had an idea, though, that had worked before…

She walked Brooke away from the gift shop, and explained her plan. Brooke wasn't too hot on the idea, but agreed when Katie sulked.

Brooke ran back to the gift shop, and called to the saleslady, "Omigod! Do you know CPR?" There's an old lady down on the ground, and I think she's having a heart attack or something."

The harried saleslady went outside to look where Brooke was pointing, and while she was distracted, Katie ran in and grabbed the necklace. Good old Brooke had got the saleslady around the corner, and Katie took off for the exit, where she and Brooke would meet up and go on to get lunch.

Just outside the park gate, she ripped the plastic seal or whatever it was off the necklace, and tried to see if the locket would open.

_Whoosh!_ It did.

It looked a lot bigger now that Katie had it open: the insides were glowing and full of a strange swirling gray liquid. There was a picture in there, but she had to lean really close to make it out….

_Whoosh! _The bottom dropped out of everything. It was like a rollercoaster at Great America, and Katie thought she was going to barf for a second.

She sat down, hard, on some grass. And looked around….

"Holy Shit!"

The parking lot had disappeared. Katie turned around. Some of the old-timey houses were still there, but weren't painted. The street was gone, and there was a dirt path, and woods were right up next to it. She was sitting on the banks of a little stream and it was really quiet.

She stood up and turned around and around. What was this? _This is crazy!_ She was holding the necklace in her hands and the insides were plain silver metal. Maybe real silver! She thought about that for a minute, and realized that the ground was vibrating. There was a strange rumbling noise, like something she had heard in movies, and it was coming closer.

I shouldn't be here. No-what does Harrison Ford and everybody else say? "I have a bad feeling about this…"

Suddenly a bunch of red-coated guys on horseback burst out of the woods, and they were coming straight at her. They weren't stopping.

"Hey, I'm here, assholes!" Katie yelled, but they didn't pay any attention. A couple of them were looking past her like they were after something.

Too late, Katie thought, _I'd better get out of their way._

One of the men saw Katie standing there in front of him and shouted a warning. She recognized him right away. She started to say, "Hey, Tav!" but she was hit by his horse and knocked sideways. She swayed, stunned. Another horse slammed into her, and she was knocked down.

She shrieked. A horrible pain, worse than anything she had ever imagined, slammed down on her, and she could hear her bones snapping. She couldn't scream anymore, because a horse had trampled her chest in. Then a hoof smashed her skull and everything was black.

Katie was sitting in the middle of the parking lot, shaking. She hugged herself, but she seemed OK. She got to her feet, slowly. Some guys getting out their car saw her and laughed. _I guess they think I fell down. Maybe I did fall down. _She was still holding the necklace, and the locket part was closed. _Whatever_.

Katie threw the necklace away from her, as hard as she could. It fell next to an SUV, and then bounced underneath. She looked around for Brooke, and then looked at her watch. It was still just about eleven thirty. At least she hadn't passed out for long.

Brooke came running up, grinning. "So? Did you get it?"

"Yeah, but I threw it away. It was crappy, anyway."

"Well, thank _you_, Miss I'm–Never-Satisfied! We could have gotten totally busted!"

"OK, OK. Let's get out of here, before somebody comes after us."

"Lunch!"

"I'm not hungry, OK?"

"What's your problem, anyway? You promised that we were going to TacoBurgerzandmore- they have this great no-carb Atkins..."

"Why don't you just shut the hell up! We're going. OK?" She had just imagined something stupid. No reason to let it ruin her day. Her hands were cold, and she rubbed them together and pushed crazy ideas away in favor of low-fat, low-carb smoothies...

In the car, she said, "You know, Brooke?"

"What?"

"Maybe Orlando _is_ hotter, after all."

* * *

Carefully, the nice older saleslady polished the necklace. It always found its way home, thank goodness. Maybe the next girl who noticed it would make better use of it. She smiled. Maybe she would wear it tonight, herself. It was time for a new adventure of her own. 


	4. Mary Sue Cries Wolf

_ Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction. That means I own none of the rights to the film The Patriot. But you already know that._

Genre: fantasy/parody

And now, presenting another author, who reminds the reader to be careful what you wish for…

**Episode Four: Mary Sue Cries Wolf**

By **Zubeneschamali aka Beta Librae**

Jessica crept through the bushes toward the temporary British encampment, hardly believing her incredible good luck. Just a short time before, she had been walking through the park near her house, fantasizing that she was a helpless colonial girl being viciously preyed upon by that evil but sexy bastard Colonel Tavington. She'd paused by the new ornamental wishing well, tossing in a coin and making the wish that she could actually travel back in time to meet Tavington, never seriously believing that her fond but impossible-seeming wish would come true. But the very next instant she had found herself here in the 18th century: her steamy fantasies about Tavington were about to become reality!

She imagined Tavington ripping off her clothes and flinging her violently to the ground, then throwing himself onto her like a ravening animal, and quivered in anticipation. She just didn't understand those fanfic writers who turned him into a nice guy. _They_ didn't understand the character at all.

And then, as she reached the edge of a small clearing, she saw him. He stood at the glade's centre, and, as she watched in breathless fascination, began to unfasten the front of his breeches. A delicious shiver ran up her spine: it was as if he'd _known_ she was coming–was it possible that he even had _supernatural powers_?–and had been lying in wait for her here all along! This was the moment she had dreaming of for so long! She closed her eyes, faint with anticipation.

An unexpected sound revived her from her near-swoon: not the menacing fall of approaching footsteps, but a gentle splashing. Her eyes flew back open. Tavington _wasn't_ stalking toward her, a sinister leer upon his handsome features and his swollen manhood protruding from his breeches–clearly completely oblivious to her presence, he was in the process of taking a pee!

Jessica let out a strangled squawk. He looked over sharply to where she stood half-concealed in the shadows of the brush; at the sight of her staring fixedly at his open breeches, he flushed deeply–with fury, surely; no way could Tav feel anything so wimpy as _embarrassment_–and as she continued to stare, _definitely_ began to look angry.

Recovering from her discomfiture, she began to take heart. It was a good sign that he was getting mad; this meant he'd be attacking her in no time. Just as she had so carefully rehearsed, she moaned, swayed, and sank gracefully to the ground in a fake faint. At the sound of his footsteps tramping through the undergrowth she had to fight to keep from licking her lips in anticipation. Then she frowned in spite of herself: his footsteps seemed to be _retreating_! She opened her eyes a fraction just in time to see him disappear into the trees at the far side of the clearing.

Jessica sat bolt upright, and nearly shouted after him as to where the hell did he think he was going. But upon a few moments' reflection, she decided, with a greater quiver of excitement than ever before, that he had gone back to the camp to get some rope so he could tie her up, just like in one of her fantasies, and maybe also to get his riding crop so he could thrash her, just like in another of her fantasies. She lay back down, and writhed in ecstasy.

At length she heard returning footsteps. "Can you hear me, girl?"

Jessica was unable to move or speak, so great was her shock: the voice belonged to a woman! Even after she recovered her senses, she remained silent and motionless. _Get lost, you stupid cow! _she thought furiously. _Get the hell out of here before Tav gets back!_

The woman knelt beside her and felt Jessica's pulse with one hand while laying the other on Jessica's brow. Then she nudged her ungently. "You may as well get up, girl, because I can tell you're awake." Jessica stubbornly refused to respond, hoping the woman would just go away. "Little fool," she heard the woman mutter, a moment before receiving a pitcherful of water in the face.

Jessica was jarred into emitting an unattractive spluttering sound and blinking up unbecomingly. "Who the hell are you?" she snarled, wiping her face.

"I'm a soldier's wife, who our colonel asked to attend to the silly wench he'd seen swooning in the woods."

Jessica's mind raced. What was going on here? Why was Tav being so damned uncooperative? Why hadn't he come back himself? But then she told herself that this must just be part of a cruel cat-and-mouse game he was playing with her, sending this woman to trick her into thinking she was safe when he really still had every intention of coming after her. Well, two could play at that game.

"I can't move one bit!" she declared dramatically. "I'm paralyzed with terror! I beg you not to tell your colonel that I'm completely at his mercy–my wedding is tomorrow, and I want to go to my husband a virgin!" She managed to squeeze out a few tears. That _should bring him running, _she thought smugly.

The woman rolled her eyes. "I'm aware of the sort of wild stories you Rebels are telling about our colonel. But I can tell you there's no truth to them. Even if he _were_ that sort of man, the thought of being thrown out of the army in disgrace would be enough to keep him in line."

Jessica nearly rolled _her_ eyes. How stupid was this woman, anyway? _She_ knew from all the RevWar romances she'd read that British soldiers were _always _raping colonial women. This grubby frump was probably just jealous because Tav had never tried anything with _her._

"Now, since there seems to be nothing the matter with you apart from being afflicted with a hare's brain, I'm going back to camp to care for those that really need it," the woman continued. "You can just run along back to that husband-to-be of yours, and be thankful that_ you_ have a home to go to. Not all of us have been so lucky during this war."

"I told you, I can't move," sniffled Jessica. "But whatever you do, _please_, _please_ don't tell Colonel Tavington that I'm still lying here completely helpless!"

The woman snorted and walked away. _I thought you'd never leave, you stupid bitch, _Jessica thought contemptuously. _And serves you right for losing your home._ Then, after artfully pulling up her skirt to display some leg and pulling down her bodice to expose some cleavage–some of the water had splashed onto her chest, causing the material of her dress to cling sexily, she noted with satisfaction–she settled herself to wait.

As the minutes passed, she began to doze off. She was jolted back to wakefulness by painful prickings on the exposed skin of her legs and chest. Mosquitoes! Why hadn't she put on insect repellent? How sexy were mosquito bites all over her hooters! She swatted and cursed for several minutes, and after hastily rearranging her clothing, lay back panting.

_What_ was taking Tav? She was going to have to take a pee soon herself. With the way things were going, he'd come back just in time to see her having her piss. That would ruin everything! (then again, he was such a twisted bastard he might actually be turned on by that kind of thing, but she didn't want to take a chance on it) She found she had to risk it anyway–no way could she enjoy her rape feeling like she had to go to the toilet the whole time, and maybe even pissing herself (see above)–and to her relief, was uninterrupted. But, it was so _not_ a relief that she had to use leaves for toilet paper (ick!) and was unable to wash her hands afterward (double ick!).

More time passed. Where _was_ he? Had he been sidetracked somehow? Maybe she should "accidentally" stumble into the camp, pretending to have lost her way while attempting to drag herself back home.

It was then that she heard a stealthy rustling in the bushes. At long last! She caught her breath, and trembled in expectancy. The rustling grew closer and closer. She felt a shadow falling over her, and opened her eyes. Her faked terror instantly gave way to the real thing: beside her crouched an enormous wolf on the point of springing, ferocious teeth bared.

She didn't even have time to scream.


	5. The Madwoman of Princess Street Part One

Disclaimer: The makers of the film _The Patriot_ own Colonel Tavington. I own the rest.

Genre: romance/fantasy

Even the best-prepared researcher might not be equal to an extended stay in the past. A young Colonial servant relates the story of her mysterious employer and a British officer…

Episode Five: The Madwoman of Princess Street

Part One

Do you remember the War? Do you remember the guns, the shouting, the strange men and strange horses and strange boots in the street outside? Do you remember the fear and the hunger? I remember all of those things, for _I_ remember the War.

We were living in Charleston then—Charles Town as it was—in a miserable little hovel, and Mama was eking out a living for us as a seamstress. Father had gone off to fight in '77, and we never saw him again. Never heard of him again, either. He stepped through the front door and vanished over the horizon. Maybe he died or maybe he found a life he liked better. I'll never know.

At any rate, that left Mama and me, and Becky, and little Andrew. Without Father's wages our food grew plainer, our house emptier, and the rent harder to net. By the spring of 1780, we were hard put to have a meal a day. For a penny, you could buy a loaf of bread or some cornmeal, or a few yams to roast. But you must first find your penny.

I was eleven: old enough to find work and lighten Mama's burden. I would have liked to apprentice with a milliner, but it costs money to 'prentice a child out, and Mama had none. No one had a place for a young servant who needed training. I stayed at home and watched the little ones, and helped Mama with the sewing, but there was less and less of it. Even fine ladies were doing their own sewing, or had servants or slaves to sew for them. Our best customers were the British soldiers billeted in the town. Say what you will of them, they stood between our family and starvation.

One Sunday, we sat in church hungry, knowing that we would go home to a dinner of plain cornmeal mush without even molasses to flavor it. You can live a long time on mush, but after a while you grow tired, and your teeth ache for substance. No matter-I was looking forward to dinner, and hoping that Mr. Philby would finish talking so I could have something to eat. I looked around at the church full of women, mostly, and some old men. There was even a handful of soldiers: the British bright with scarlet, and the Tories in green.

Mr. Philby just kept on talking. I looked at my hands awhile, seeing how I could fit my fingers together different ways. I sighed and swung my legs, and looked over at Miss Lindsey in the pew across the aisle.

Miss Lindsey was mad, they said. Not wild, or drunken, or dangerous, but mad all the same. She'd come from some place up north and never quite fit in. Mama always said that Miss Lindsey was just _off,_ somehow. That was true. I'll never forget Miss Lindsey. Her clothes never looked right, and she talked funny, and sometimes she laughed at things for no reason anybody could figure. She wasn't mean, though, and that was always good. Mama did some sewing for her, and Miss Lindsey paid right away and better than most. That was one the signs that she was crazy. All the storekeepers said that it was shamefully easy, bargaining with Miss Lindsey. She'd pay 'most anything they asked, and never seemed to really know what things ought to cost. But she was nice, and she seemed to have all the money she needed.

She lived in a big brick house on Princess Street. There had been a cook and a maid there when she bought the place, but Miss Lindsey was mad, and she set them free right away. Folks said she did her own cooking and cleaning. She had a big, untidy garden in back, with two peach trees, and raspberry bushes, and a cowshed and a chicken coop. She paid a boy down our lane to care for the animals. She seemed very rich to us. Mama would look at that big house, with only Miss Lindsey in it, and talk about how if it were hers, we could all sleep in one the bedchambers, and put Andrew in an upstairs garret when he was old enough, and that would leave three fine rooms to let out to boarders. With the money from boarders, and with the garden, and the peach trees, and the raspberries, and two cows and all those chickens, we could live like kings. Then she would sigh, and go back to her sewing.

Mr. Philby droned on and on, about "blessed are the poor." I tried to feel blessed. Miss Lindsey saw me looking around, and gave me a smile. She had good teeth, I recollect, and was a nice-looking lady; but I had heard she was at least thirty, which seemed very old to me. I looked away, because I knew about her being crazy.

Finally, Mr Philby was done with his sermon. We sang our hymn and walked on home. I could hardly wait to dish up the mush, and was filling Andrew's little bowl, when there was a knock on the door.

I was so hungry, I didn't want Mama to answer the door, and she looked like she didn't want to answer it either, but of course she did. Miss Lindsey stood there, with her too-bright smile and her too-friendly way.

"Hello, Mrs Clay! I hope I'm not bothering you?"

"No, Miss Lindsey," Mama said quietly, "How may I be of service?"

The mush was getting cold. I saw Becky's fingers stray toward her bowl, but of course we could not eat in front of Miss Lindsey. I was afraid that Mama would feel she had to invite her in, and then we would all get less.

Miss Lindsey smiled at me. I looked down, but I knew that was rude, so I made a little bob of a curtsey. She said, "I wonder if you could spare Hannah here. The Miller boy has run off—his mother won't say where, but I suppose to join some Army somewhere. That leaves me with no one to take care of my cows and chickens, and the whole neighborhood seems a little short of boys lately. And now I've had a British officer billeted on me, and I really need some help. If Hannah would like the job, I have plenty more work for her besides."

Mama looked stunned. "You're offering Hannah a place?"

Miss Lindsey looked around her at our one room where we lived, and cooked, and slept, and did everything. Maybe she wasn't so silly after all. She said, very carefully, "Yes, I would like to hire Hannah. She can take care of the cows and chickens and help me in the house. It would be best if she stayed with me, but she could see you every Sunday."

I wanted to say no. I didn't want to leave Mama and go live with crazy Miss Lindsey, and I hoped Mama would send her away. I was useful to Mama, taking care of Becky and Andrew and helping with the sewing. Surely Mama wouldn't hire me out just so she didn't have to feed me.

Miss Lindsey said, "I'll give her her meals of course. And" she added, studying Mama, "one shilling a week in wages."

"You'll pay her every week?" Mama asked, surprised. Servants were usually not paid until the end of their year. That was that, I knew. Mama couldn't refuse such a blessing, such a gift from God, whom I should have trusted to ease the pinch before it became intolerable.

"Yes," Miss Lindsey replied, "why not? Hannah can go to church with you each Sunday, and bring her wages to you then. What do you think?' she asked anxiously.

Mama curtseyed politely to Miss Lindsey. "Thank you, ma'am. I am very beholden to you for your offer. When would it please you she come to you?"

Miss Lindsey shrugged a little. "Right away would be best. The cows need milking, and I'm really not very handy with them."

Mama did not look at me as she said, "Hannah, take the old satchel under the bed and put your things in it."

Becky protested, "Hannah hasn't had her dinner!" Her lip trembled. We had never been apart before, and now I was to go away and live in a strange house on Princess Street.

Miss Lindsey apologized. "I'm so sorry! Please, please, don't let me interrupt your dinner. Just send her along when you can." She made to leave, but Mama stopped her.

"No, ma'am, don't leave, I pray you." I could see that Mama was afraid that Miss Lindsey would change her mind and find another, better-prepared little girl. "I can have Hannah ready to go in a trice. Would it please you join us for dinner?" My heart nearly stopped with terror.

"Oh—no. Why don't I just sit with the children while they eat? I have my dinner all ready for me when I get home." She sat down without being invited, but Mama was not going to dispute her right.

She motioned at us impatiently. "Eat, then, children. Becky, help Andrew. Hannah, eat your dinner and don't keep Miss Lindsey waiting." She went over to our little clothes press and pulled out my things. I had little enough to take.

"Lord, we thank you for your bounty," I said, and quickly, I wolfed down the cold mush, and felt a little better for it. Miss Lindsey smiled at us, but seemed to be thinking about serious things. I scraped my bowl and licked the last bits from the spoon. Then I got up and put my bowl aside. Mama handed me the weather-beaten old satchel she used to carry sewing. She bent and whispered, "Bring the satchel back next Sunday. You be a good girl and mind Miss Lindsey."

Becky jumped up from her chair, ran over to me, and held me tight. Andrew came and hugged me too, but I could tell that he didn't understand that I was leaving. I kissed my brother and sister, and then Mama gave me a nice warm kiss and hug, and she pushed me away towards my new mistress.

* * *

The house on Princess Street was big and bright inside, with glass windows everywhere you looked. I followed Miss Lindsey right through the front door. After a while I saw some of the dust and neglect, for it was too much house for one woman's care, but my first impression was of shining wood and rich draperies. A big grey tom cat startled me, jumping down from the staircase and trotting over to meet us. 

"McCavity," Miss Lindsey said. "There's no one like McCavity. Did you miss me, sweet boy?" she asked the cat. She was crazy, I remembered. I bent down to offer a hand for the cat to sniff. He had a white face and white front paws, and fur of luxuriant softness.

"Let's get you settled," Miss Lindsey said, and led me upstairs, into a sunny hall with many white doors. Against one side of the hall was a handsome highboy, which I later learned was full of linen. She pointed to a closed door to a room that evidently faced the street. "That's the British officer's room. I'll need you to help me keep it tidy, but he probably won't be back until late, so let's take care of you first." She walked to another door and opened it.

Inside was the finest bedchamber I had ever seen. There was a big four-poster bed with a quilted counterpane, and a carved chest of red cherry wood with four drawers. A washstand with a china bowl painted with blue flowers seemed rare and beautiful. The window was draped with soft muslin curtains that diffused the light and fluttered in the warm breeze. The room faced back toward the garden, and I could see the cowshed and the peach trees, which had passed the peak of their blooming.

Miss Lindsey let me look for a moment, and then said cheerfully, "Let's have your satchel, and we'll put away your things." This great place was to be my room.

Embarrassed, I opened the satchel and drew out my nightgown, an extra pair of stockings, and an old wooden comb with teeth missing. She had pulled out the top drawer of the chest, and then looked at my meager possessions again.

"That's all you brought?"

"Please, ma'am, it's all I have."

"Ah." She pushed the drawer in and pulled out the next lower one. "I think this drawer will be easier for you to reach. Put your comb over by the washstand. That's right." She stood, puzzling over me a little more. I was ashamed of my poverty, and hung my head.

"Well," she said brightly, after awhile. "Why don't I show you the cows and the chickens?"

The coop was a warm, feathery, dusty softness. She had already let them out to scratch, earlier in the morning, and had filled their pans with water. I helped her find a few eggs, and then we went to see the cows. She had two: fine Jersey milch cows that munched hay placidly. Everyday but Sunday, Old Joe Coleman took them out to graze during the day, along with a number of other cows belonging to the neighbors. I would do the milking, morning and evening, when they were back in the shed. I had not milked a cow in over a year, since we had had to part with Daisy, but I remembered all about it. One of the cows' udders looked a little lumpy. I could see that Miss Lindsey hadn't stripped her well. I would do better. There would be milk, and cream, and even butter.

"What are their names? " I asked.

"Feckless," she said, pointing to the one with the curled ear, "and Hopeless." She patted the cow with the lumpy udder.

"I've never heard such names, " I ventured.

She laughed in an odd way. "I'm sure you haven't. Nonetheless, they are, indeed, Feckless and Hopeless."

She showed me the buckets, and milkpans, and everything I would need. She told me how she wanted the cow things kept. Miss Lindsey had a bee in her bonnet about everything being clean. I could see that if I wanted to keep my place, I would need to do a great deal of washing.

It was midday, but I decided to get to work. "I will try milking them now, Miss Lindsey, so they become used to me."

"Well, all right—if you're sure—"

"And I am keeping you from your dinner, ma'am."

"Oh, that! When you're done in here, bring the milk to the kitchen, and I'll have dinner then. I'm sure you wouldn't mind having a little bite with me, just to celebrate your new job!"

"No, indeed, ma'am. I thank you." She went back into the house with the basket of eggs, and I set to work.

I brought the milk into the kitchen, and found that Miss Lindsey had set places for the two of us at the table there. I had only a little over a half pail of milk, but she immediately poured out a cup of it, and set it at the place she said was mine. She covered the pail and set it aside.

"It's good for you," she urged me, as I shyly sat down with her. I did not dare contradict my mistress, and tell her I was not a baby. Besides, there was a wonderful smell coming from a platter of fried ham and eggs. On the table was half a loaf of wheat bread, ready to be sliced. A glass dish of red rhubarb preserves glowed in the light from the window. I was struck dumb at such a feast. Miss Lindsey offered me the platter, and I timidly took an egg, and a small slice of ham. She frowned and added another slice and another egg. "You need to eat," she said firmly. She cut the bread and put two slices on my plate, and then gave me the dish of preserves. "There's not much fresh fruit this time of year, but the rhubarb will do instead."

It was tart and sweet, and I felt rich and very worldly, sitting in a fine kitchen and enjoying such food. Afterwards, we washed the dishes together. Miss Lindsey showed me the well outside, and made certain that getting water was not too much for my strength. She washed and I wiped. She showed me where to put the dishes away, and then took me down cellar with her, when she put the milk there to stay cool. When the cows began yielding more, there would be enough to skim for cream. I could hardly wait.

After all that, she took me upstairs again. "I'm lucky they only saddled me with one officer. He usually takes his meals at the officers' mess, but now and then he turns up hungry. He's more work than I could have imagined. It's hard enough to keep this place clean and dusted with just me. I'll expect you to take care of your own room, of course, but it would be a great help if you would do Colonel Tavington's room as well."

She opened the white door, and I saw what she meant about work. This room, too, had a large, four-poster bed. It was unmade, and the bedclothes were a rumpled mess. The pillows were heaped haphazardly together at the head of the bed. There was a familiar sour smell, and some men's shirts were flung on a chair. There was a stack of books on a traveling chest, and a razor and a comb by the wash stand. A sodden towel lay on the floor.

Miss Lindsey looked around her, with her lips pressed together tightly. "_Some people_ are used to being waited on."

She opened the window wider to air the room. "All right. First of all, make the bed up very neatly. I'll help you do the room this time, so you see how I like it done. Then take the chamberpot down to the privy and empty it. Take it to the well house and rinse it out until it's perfectly clean. Throw the rinsings onto the ground where the raspberry bushes are. Then bring it up and go get a pitcher of fresh water, along with some clean rags from the kitchen. I'll show you the rag basket. Empty the basin. You can empty it out the window of your room, because there's nothing below to be hurt. Clean the basin and the washstand _very carefully _with a little water from the pitcher. Then wipe it dry so it doesn't streak. Set the pitcher with the fresh water in the basin. Hang a clean towel on the washstand and remember to take the dirty one away to the laundry basket in the kitchen. Then fetch the broom and the dustpan and clean out the fireplace. When that's done, go get some firewood and tinder and lay the fire ready to light if he wants it. Take another rag and dust the room. If Colonel Tavington has left anything on the chest of drawers or the washstand, put it back after you dust. _Don't_ put it anywhere else. As to his dirty shirts—that's his problem. I'm not his laundress. Some woman from the army comes by every few days to take away his dirty things and bring fresh ones. Mrs Harley does my washing once a week."

It took most of an hour to set the Colonel's room to rights. Miss Lindsey showed me where she kept the clean sheets and towels in the upstairs highboy. I was impressed myself by how much trouble one man could be.

"Won't the Colonel want hot water in the mornings?" I asked.

She said dryly, "The Colonel wants hot water morning _and_ evening, but I'll take care of that. You'll be busy in the early mornings with the cows and the chickens. I always have a pot of hot water to the side of the kitchen hearth. I check it now and then and if it's getting low I fill it from the kitchen pail. If you see the pail getting low, it's your job to see it stays filled." She gave a tired sigh, and brushed a loose tendril of hair back under her cap. Moving the hair aside revealed a long, faint, white scar on her cheek. Miss Lindsey saw me notice it. "I burned myself cooking with hot lard. It took me awhile to get used to Here." Somehow, I felt that Here was not just the house on Princess Street.

It was Sunday, after all, and supposed to be a day of rest. My work was done until the cows should be milked in the evening. Miss Lindsey showed me over the rest of that fascinating house: the attic, with its two little garret rooms, the like of which would have been more fitting for a young servant like me; the stately dining room, filled with beautiful china and silver; the parlor, which held a sofa covered in green silk brocade, a bookcase full of volumes bound in fine leather, and a pianoforte of polished wood. Touching it was rapture. I had never seen a pianoforte close to, and stared curiously at the strange object, with its mysterious front of mixed black and white bits. The keyboard, Miss Lindsey, told me it was called.

Without thinking, I reached out, and pressed one of the ivories. The musical tone sounded out clearly, startling me, and attracting Miss Lindsey's attention. "Do you like music?" she asked, with an odd, eager look on her face.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered cautiously. She said, "Sit down," and I perched uneasily on an elegant armchair. She sat down at the instrument, and began to play a hymn from church that day:

"Am I a soldier of the cross, a follower of the Lamb,

And shall I fear to own His cause, or blush to speak His Name?

Must I be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease,

While others fought to win the prize, and sailed thro' bloody seas?"

When she was done, I thanked her, quite impressed. She smiled. "Come here," she said, and had me sit down on the stool before the instrument in her place.

She took my hand, and made it curve as though I were holding a ball. She positioned my hand carefully, and told me that my thumb was on top of middle C. She pressed down my thumb and my fingers, one after another. It was thrilling to make such sounds. She grew more animated, and pulled over a chair for herself.

She must have talked a good half an hour. She told me the names of the keys and what an octave was. She told me that what I had done was a five-finger exercise and she had me do it with both my hands. She told me that I could touch the pianoforte whenever I liked, if I was careful and finished my work first; and that if I were a good girl, she would teach me to play it properly.

Talking about music put her in a very good humor. After a while, she got up and showed me her books. I knew my letters, and could read a little, but I had never had time or materials to learn to write much. She said we would work on that too. She drew out a little book, bound in green, whose title I could sound out: _"Goody Two-Shoes."_

"This is a book for children about a little girl like you," she said. "Would you like to try to read it?"

Even the title page was hard going for me. Miss Lindsey helped.

"The History of Little Goody Two Shoes: Otherwise called Mistress Margery Two Shoes. The Means by which she acquired her learning and wisdom, and in consequence thereof her estate, set forth at large for the benefit of those 

Who from a state of Rags and Care,

And having Shoes but half a Pair;

Their Fortune and their Fame would fix,

And gallop in a Coach and Six."

"Take the book with you," said Miss Lindsey. "You may keep it until you can read it all the way through. We will try a little together every day." She told me I could do as I pleased until supper time, for she would be busy writing in her journal. I found out later that everyday she wrote in a book, and had filled a whole stack of the bound volumes. I wondered what she had to write about. Happy to have some time to myself, I put my new book in my pocket and went up to my grand new chamber.

There was a little rocking chair by the window. I sat down in it to look at the book. Turning the pages, I found I could manage quite of few of the words, if not all the sense. I further discovered that there were pictures in the book. I had never seen a picture book before, and eagerly studied the black and white images that I later learned were called woodcuts. There were pictures of a little girl and of a little boy, a picture of a woman in a cap kneeling down to kiss the little girl. There were pictures of dogs and lambs and grandly dressed gentlemen. I had had no idea there were such wonderful books in the world.

I fell asleep over my book, for I next recall Miss Lindsey summoning me to a simple but comforting supper of Indian pudding. It was hot and seasoned with cinnamon. I wondered if we would always eat this well. I finished my pudding and went out to look after the animals. Another milking yielded about the same amount of milk as before, or perhaps a little less. It would take awhile, but the cows would soon respond to their new schedule. I forked over more hay for them and fetched them fresh water. The chickens were already settled down for the night. They, too, needed fresh water, and I filled their pans before I fastened the coop door.

Miss Lindsey was waiting for me in the kitchen, and told me to take the milk pail down cellar and empty it into the other already there. I brought the now empty pail upstairs to rinse it out. While I cleaned it, Miss Lindsey sat in quiet thought, stroking the purring McCavity on her lap.

I wondered if I should bid her goodnight, when she suddenly spoke. "Hannah, there is one more thing for you to do. I always check the house at eight o'clock every evening, and I want you to help me. Maybe you'll see something I might miss."

"Check the house, ma'am? What are we looking for?" My heart sank. I had forgotten, with the good food, and the music, and the book that Miss Lindsey was crazy.

She waved a vague gesture. "Something unusual. A bright light. A new doorway. Unfamiliar sounds." She saw my confusion, and sighed. "Anything out of the ordinary."

We went from room to room. At her bidding, I crawled under the furniture. Upstairs, I looked under the beds. She peered behind the highboy and the pianoforte, and then we went up to the attic and looked there, too. We moved quickly, for Miss Lindsey said it would only last a quarter of an hour, whatever "it" was. I wondered if Miss Lindsey were one of those women who was afraid of housebreakers. I could not see why, when everyone must know that we had a soldier in the house. No, it was because she was a madwoman, poor thing. I felt bad for her. She was so nice it was a shame she was crazy.

Nothing unusual was to be seen. She muttered to herself, "I can't believe they would have forgotten me. Maybe there's been a systems failure." She shivered. "Maybe they've lost funding." She seemed very low in spirits. She laid a gentle hand on my head. "Never mind. Off to bed with you. I'll wake you in the morning."

Obediently, I went to my fine new room. It seemed too big and empty for me. I slipped on my nightgown, and combed out my hair. Then I said my prayers and crawled to the center of the too-large bed, thinking wretchedly of my family. At home I would be cuddled next to Becky, with Andrew and Mama cozily asleep in the bed as well. I had never felt so alone. I stared at the darkening ceiling for a long time, as tears ran down my cheeks and moistened my pillow.

After a while, I heard the front door open, and an Englishman's voice call out, "Miss Lindsey! Fetch me some hot water!" Booted feet ascended the stairs. I felt a little afraid of having a strange man only a few yards away, and wished I had locked my door. The door to the officer's room opened and I heard him walking about inside. It sounded like he kicked something, and quite plainly I heard him use a word that Mama did not like. I wondered if he had been drinking. Papa had used such language when he had had too much to drink, and in my experience drinking was the usual preamble to shouts and blows. I slid down further under the counterpane.

I heard Miss Lindsey's lighter step on the stairs and then her soft voice at the officer's door. "Your hot water, Colonel."

There were more thumps, first one, then another. _He's taking off his boots,_ I realized. I could not hear an answer, and supposed he must have responded only with a gesture for her to bring it in and set it down. A moment later, Miss Lindsey spoke again. "Good night, then, Colonel."

I heard a low grunt in reply and the door to his room closed. He moved around for awhile, making no small amount of noise; but I had had a wearying day, and soon was sound asleep, in the lonely grandeur of a bed of my own.

* * *

The Colonel's door was still closed when I arose the next morning for my first full day in my new position. The cows placidly accepted me; the chickens were swiftly dealt with. I spent a few idle moments over a new hatching of chicks, admiring the softness of their fluffy yellow down. A cold glass of milk from down cellar awaited me at breakfast. Miss Lindsey believed that drinking milk would make my bones strong. I couldn't see the connection, save that milk and bones are both white, but there is no doubt that the food and drink I received while in her care greatly improved my health. 

"I need to do some shopping today," Miss Lindsey announced in her cheerful way. "You'll come with me."

"Has the Colonel gone out yet?" I asked timidly.

"Ha!" Miss Lindsey's eyes flashed. "No, not yet. He's awake though, and he's already got the hot water he shouted for. I'd like to give him _hot water_," she growled. I did not quite understand her, but I then I imagined her dousing the fearsome British soldier with a pitcherful, and I had to grin at the thought. She smiled back, and patted my cap. "Eat up, Hannah. I told Colonel Tavington that I was going out, and that I would thank him to lock the door when he left, if he wanted to have any belongings when he returned. He has quite a glare."

"Aren't you afraid—" I began, and stopped, not wishing to set my opinion against hers.

"Afraid of Colonel Tavington?" She frowned. "Not very. Not at the moment. We're in a city and his superiors are near by. Mind you, I can well imagine that crossing him would be a mistake if he had his regiment at his back, or if we were in some isolated place in the country; but here, in Charlestown, with Lord Cornwallis newly arrived and all the proclamations that loyal subjects have nothing to fear-no. No, I'm not afraid of him, unless he were to lose his temper or have too much to drink. Then any man can become dangerous. But I'm just his unwilling landlady, and not worth the wrath of his commander." She saw my anxious face, and squeezed my shoulder. "So don't _you_ be afraid of him either. Now finish your milk and we'll have a wonderful time."

We heard the Colonel shout for Miss Lindsey again, and she rolled her eyes and left the kitchen. I began washing up the breakfast dishes and heard her call back up the stairs, "If you want tea, there's some in the pot here in the kitchen. I'll cover it so it's still warm by the time you've finished dressing." He made some sharp-toned answer back, and she came back into the kitchen, looking very cross. "What a jerk," she muttered. "I am so sick of this—" She often used expressions I had never heard. Seeing me already washing the dishes, she smiled. "You're a very good girl, Hannah. It's a shame more people aren't-" she raised her voice, directing her words at the ceiling, "_as_ _considerate as you are!_" The dishes were quickly done. "Come on, " she said. "Let's get out of here before His Majesty comes downstairs and needs us to pour a cup a tea for him."

We had a wonderful morning. We went to the shops, and Miss Lindsey bought muslin and cambric, and a pretty blue printed cotton. To my astonishment, I was informed that I was to have new clothes.

"You need a change so your other things can be laundered, Hannah."

I did not dare argue, nor did I want to. I did not argue as she bought a small workbasket for me, and fitted it out with needles and pins, with silk and cotton, with scissors and a measure and a thimble just my size. I did not argue when we stopped at the cobbler's, and Miss Lindsey ordered me a new pair of shoes to replace my too-small footgear, slitted around the sides to make room for my growing feet. She bought me other things as well: a warm blue shawl, two more pairs of stockings, a hairbrush, and a little brush for cleaning my teeth. I never met anyone so set on things being clean as Miss Lindsey.

To my great pleasure, we walked to my home, and Miss Lindsey engaged Mama to make my new clothes. A new gown, a new petticoat, an underpetticoat, a shift, an apron, and a new nightgown, too.

The morning had sped by. On our return, Miss Lindsey went directly to the kitchen to start dinner, and sent me upstairs to see if Colonel Tavington were out, and if so, to do up his room.

With great trepidation, I knocked softly at the forbidding white door. There was no answer. "Colonel? Sir? Are you there?" I essayed.

There was no response and I slowly opened the door. Colonel Tavington was indeed gone, and had left his room in an even worse state of disarray than the day before. Papers littered the floor around the small writing desk, and the wet towel from his morning wash was on the bed. I would have to change the sheets.

I began with the bed, since that was the order of Miss Lindsey's instruction. Besides, a well-made bed goes far to make a room look tidy. I squared the corners smartly, and plumped up the pillows. Then I busied myself with the chamberpot, and then the wash basin. I made good progress, smelling the enticing scents of the dinner that was being prepared downstairs. Nothing remained but the dusting. I decided that I must pick up the fallen papers, and lay them neatly on the desk. I smoothed them out and was making a tidy-looking stack, when a harsh voice made me jump with alarm.

_"Who are you and what are you doing with my papers?"_

I gave a little scream of fright. A terrible, terrible soldier in red was bearing down on me, scowling ferociously. He seized me by my arm, and snarled, "What have you been stealing?" He forced my hands open, bruising me in the process. I started to sob, but I couldn't escape him. He gripped both my wrists in one hand, and with the other searched my pocket. He pulled out my little green book of _Goody Two-Shoes_, and cast it aside with an oath.

"Let go of that child, right now!" Miss Lindsey had come running at the sound of my scream, and accosted the Colonel, pushing him back and pulling me close. "What do you think you're doing, manhandling a little girl like that? Shame on you!"

"What the devil is she doing in here?"

"She's cleaning your pigsty of a room! Not that you'd notice, or dream of thanking her!" Miss Lindsey took a deep, indignant breath. Her cheeks were rosy with anger and she looked much prettier than usual. I was terrified for her. If my mother had spoken to my father so, she would have been beaten. I wondered if this powerful, angry soldier would use his fists or a stick. Miss Lindsey put her hands on my shoulders and turned me to face the Colonel. "This is Hannah Clay. She is staying here because you've made so much work for me that I needed help. Her mother was kind enough to entrust her to me, believing she would be _well treated!"_

I dared to glance at Colonel Tavington. He was an awesome sight in his scarlet coat and boots. A huge sabre hung from his sword belt. If he drew it, I knew I should die of fear. He looked at me and grimaced. I bobbed a submissive curtsey. Sometimes that soothed angry men.

He was still angry, but calmer. He looked down his nose at us. "I had no idea that I was causing trouble, Madam. I am hardly here."

Miss Lindsey was still angry, too. "You're here long enough to make a pig's breakfast of your bedchamber!" I slipped away, and picked up my precious book, smoothing a page that had been crumpled. I ran back behind Miss Lindsey again, and peered around her at the terrible man.

He was tall and well made. If he had had a pleasanter expression on his face, I would have called him comely. He was plainly gentleborn, with the air of entitlement and superiority I had often marked in the rich folk about town. There is no understanding such people. They talk a great deal about honour and gentility, but Mama had no end of trouble getting some of her customers to pay for work she had done. They would put her off, or laugh, or sneer about how money-grubbing the lower orders were.

Not surprisingly, I did not feel much liking for Colonel Tavington, as he stood there frowning. Still, he did not move to strike us, and I began to breathe easier.

He looked at me, and said, "Come here, child." He saw my hesitation, and said, more sharply, "Come here!"

Miss Lindsey glared at him, and he gave her a cold look, "If you please, Madam." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a sixpence. "I thank you for cleaning my room. I trust you will say nothing of any papers you pried into, for I assure you I punish spies and tattling children." He pressed the coin into my palm, with a half smile.

"What a charming thing to do," Miss Lindsey hissed furiously. "Offering the child money instead rendering an apology!"

_"Apology?"_ he laughed, incredulous. I couldn't believe it either. Besides, I had much rather have the sixpence. But Miss Lindsey did not see it that way.

"Yes, an apology for hurting an innocent little girl who was only trying to put your disgusting room in order! Well, it's as clean as it going to get today. Come on down to dinner now, Hannah, and we'll leave this _gentleman_ alone with his _terribly important papers_. As if we care about such rubbish!" She stormed downstairs. McCavity, dozing on the steps, gave a _mrowl_ of surprise and darted out of her way.

Colonel Tavington was white-lipped with anger. He ran to the head of the stairs and shouted down them, "Intolerable woman! I don't suffer such insolence!"

I was truly frightened now, and I ran forward, "Please, sir! Please don't be angry with Miss Lindsey!"

"That harpy!" Colonel Tavington snarled, pushing me aside.

I clung to his sleeve. "She can't help it, sir! She's mad!"

He stopped dead and stared at me. "What impudence is this?"

"No, sir! She really is mad. Everybody knows it. If you were from Charlestown you'd know it too. I'm not speaking ill of her. She's very kind and good, but she's crazy, and that's just the simple truth."

He paused and looked doubtful. "She doesn't seem violent or dangerous—what do you mean, mad?"

I swallowed. "Well, sir," I began, "she doesn't like to keep servants. When she came here, she freed the slaves that were sold with the house. And the merchants in town all cheat her, because she won't bargain."

His eyebrows rose, and he said acidly, "Perhaps that _is_ how petty provincials might view a woman who opposes slavery on principle and is too high-minded to haggle like a peasant."

"She makes me drink milk with every meal."

He actually laughed, then, and shook off my grip on his sleeve. "Oh, come!" he scoffed, brushing off his uniform. "Giving nourishing food to a child is madness?"

"She talks to her cat."

He laughed again, now seemingly very diverted. "A harmless eccentricity in a lonely woman. And people judge her mad for these trifles? I thank God some of my own relations never lived in the Colonies. They'd all be locked away."

"She searches the house every night between eight and a quarter past for bright lights and new doors."

"Ah." He smiled again, more gravely now, but still amused. "Ah." He was quiet and looked just a little compassionate. "I see. And you think I should be more understanding of her failings. That I should humour her, in short?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, please, Colonel. She's very good and I'm very happy here. I don't want anyone to hurt her."

"Then," he said, very decidedly, "you must never tell anyone else what you have just told me. The world is full of busybodies who are fond of ruining other people's lives. As long as Miss Lindsey is not a danger to herself or others, it would be cruel to have her put away. Why doesn't her family take care of her?"

"I don't think she has any family. I don't think she has anyone but McCavity-and me, now."

"Very well," he said, all his earlier anger quite gone. "I shall try to indulge Miss Lindsey's eccentricities. Like you, I find this a pleasant place, and I'm quite happy with it—aside from the lack of service." He stood thoughtfully a moment, and then a smile flickered across his face. He pinched my cheek gently, and went back to his room. I clutched my silver sixpence tightly, already feeling better disposed towards our officer.

* * *

The Colonel left that afternoon, and was gone more than a week. Time passed pleasantly with my music lessons, and lessons in reading and writing. In the afternoons, Miss Lindsey wrote industriously in her journal. We gardened, we sewed, and the cows finally gave enough milk for us to make butter. Miss Lindsey had a pretty butter mold that would press out a pat with the shape of a flower on top. I proudly gave my mother my week's wages and the additional sixpence on Sunday, along with a pot of rhubarb preserves from Miss Lindsey. Mother had finished the new blue dress for me, and the new shift, and I could hardly wait to put them on the following day. I finished hemming a handkerchief, from a square of fine cambric that Miss Lindsey had cut out for me, and was given another piece to make a second. Miss Lindsey declared I needed at least three. Faithfully, every night at eight o'clock, we made our progress through the house to search for lights and noises and doors. 

As I was stitching that Wednesday afternoon, I heard the front door open, and Colonel Tavington call out, "Miss Lindsey! It is William Tavington!"

"We're in the parlour, Colonel," Miss Lindsey answered. He passed the door of the parlour and saw us sewing quietly. He smiled a little at the sight, but Miss Lindsey and I stared at him. He looked a fright, his uniform spotted and smeared with some dark brown stains, and his face pale, dirty, and haggard. The weather was turning hot, and he seemed a little feverish. His boots were filthy, and he immediately set about removing them before treading elsewhere in the house.

"Hannah, my dear," he said. "I would be obliged if you'd give my boots a good cleaning. Mrs McKenzie will be by shortly to fetch my laundry and this uniform for cleaning. I don't suppose there is any possibility of a bath, Miss Lindsey?"

"I have a hip bath—" she began slowly.

"Excellent!"

"It's in the spare room upstairs. If you want to move it into your room that's all right. Or if you want to take it downstairs and use the kitchen, I suppose it would be easier for you to fill it there."

"I—fill the bath?"

She told him frankly, "It will take at least five buckets to fill it, and then the hot water must be carried, too. It's beyond Hannah's strength, and not very easy for me either."

"If you kept a manservant—" he broke in impatiently.

"Well, I don't!" Miss Lindsey lifted her chin defiantly. "The only male creatures in this house are you and McCavity, and he has paws! I guess that pretty much narrows it down to you." She folded her arms, and looked him in the eye. "If you want a bath, you will have to haul the water up yourself. I'll provide hot water only."

I could see he was keeping his temper with an effort. He glanced at me, and I knew he was remembering what I had said. He took a deep breath, and said, "I quite understand, Madam. In future I shall make other arrangements." He gave her a quiet nod, and left to go upstairs. I heard the sounds of the bath being moved and I took the boots to the kitchen, diligently cleaning them.

Colonel Tavington did indeed fetch the water, his jaw grimly set. I made myself small in my chair as I polished his boots. While he was at the well, the army laundress came by, and there was some bustle as he got all his clothes ready for her, and gave her some instructions I was too far away to hear. Being a strong man, he could carry two pails upstairs at the same time. Miss Lindsey followed with one pail of hot water, and then went down to get another.

She came down later, looking a little guilty. "Well, he's having his bath now. I hope he enjoys it. He did look so tired… No matter-I refuse to allow him to make a servant of me. It's a matter of principle."

"Yes, ma'am," I whispered. _What principle?_

Miss Lindsey was listening to me read, later that afternoon, when there was a knock at the back door. I set my book down, and ran to answer it. Outside were a soldier, a woman, and two little children.

The man grinned. "Trooper McKenzie, and this is my wife and my little 'uns. Colonel ordered us to come here and help out."

Miss Lindsey came to the door to see what was going on. Before we knew it, the McKenzies were moving their belongings up to the two garret rooms, and were snugly installed. Miss Lindsey tried to protest, but the McKenzies kept repeating that they had their orders, and that they were billeted here now. Trooper McKenzie was Colonel Tavington's orderly, and would do some of the heavy work, when he wasn't riding with the Dragoons. Mrs. McKenzie was to help with cooking and housework; and the "little 'uns," Jamie and Archie, lively as cock-sparrows, were evidently under orders to get in our way as much as possible.

I scorned the little boys from the grandeur of my position as a real servant earning wages, but they were a help finding eggs in the morning. Their mother also set them to weeding the overgrown garden and gathering fallen branches for kindling. Miss Lindsey found herself relentlessly being pushed out of the kitchen.

"But I _like_ to cook," she protested.

"No harm in a lady baking a fancy cake or two," Mrs McKenzie blandly agreed. There was no arguing with her: she had been a servant before she had married, and knew how things ought to be done. Miss Lindsey's meals were henceforth served in the dining room, and over were our cozy times in the kitchen. Instead, because of my age, I ate with the McKenzies, and the Colonel often joined Miss Lindsey at the polished cherry table, set with her pretty china and gleaming silver. That first time, she had looked bewildered when Mrs McKenzie had informed her that it was time for her to dress for dinner. Seeing the futility of argument, Miss Lindsey went upstairs and appeared at the table in a pretty blue silk dress and lace cap I had not seen before. I thought she looked very nice and not at all mad—or _eccentric,_ as the Colonel would say. It seemed to me that the Colonel thought she looked nice, too.

Still, Miss Lindsey and I spent our afternoons in the parlour together. We would sew, or I would sew or practice reading or music and she would write busily in her journal. Once or twice, I overheard the McKenzies talking about me, and eyeing me speculatively. It seemed that they regarded me less as a servant, than as a foundling that Miss Lindsey had adopted and was raising to be a gentlewoman and a companion. I could understand why, since I had been given one of the fine bedchambers, and she was teaching me music and writing. It was not an unpleasant thought.

Miss Lindsey had submitted to Colonel Tavington's introduction of the McKenzies: but the one thing she would not budge from was the nightly search of the house. When Colonel Tavington was in, he would look amused and indulgent when she asked to have a look at his room at the appointed hour. Occasionally his eyes met mine. When he wasn't being ferocious, he had quite beautiful eyes, blue as forget-me-nots. Now and then, he gave me a shiny sixpence with a little smile and a light touch, as if I were a nice kitten.

Our real cat, McCavity, alarmed by the appearance of two small boys, wisely kept out of their way; and kept out of the way of Mrs McKenzie, who had no use for cats, nor indeed any animal in a house. If it had been left to her, McCavity would have found himself relegated to the cowshed. But Miss Lindsey loved McCavity, and he mostly stayed in the safer, stately confines of the parlour and the upstairs bedrooms. He was attached to Miss Lindsey, and tolerant of me, allowing me as a great favour to brush his thick, silken fur. He was haughtily aloof around the Colonel, and had to be kept out of his room; for otherwise he would leave tokens of his disregard upon the bed. I had caught him at it, chased him from the room, and speedily changed the bed and shut the door fast. Indulgent as the Colonel was of Miss Lindsey, I could not imagine him hesitating to toss McCavity out the window if he came home and found his bed used in such a fashion.

The McKenzies outwardly accepted the nightly intrusion into their quarters, but I had the feeling that they found it all very odd indeed, and discussed it at length in the privacy of their garret rooms when we were gone downstairs again.

Mrs McKenzie, indeed, did allude to it once, saying that spinsters who lived alone too long got the strangest notions in their heads. Jamie McKenzie, watching me milk Feckless, and begging for a turn at it, told me more frankly that his parents had said that Miss Lindsey needed a man.

"That what my father said," he declared. He said, 'I know what she needs,' and my mother laughed, and I asked what he meant. Then my mother said it meant that she needed a man, and then she wouldn't be looking for one _under_ the beds. They laughed and laughed."

The family seemed very pleased with their billet, though; having the two small but comfortable rooms for their own, and thus considerable privacy. Mrs McKenzie would sigh over the war, and the home she had lost, and the fact that within the month the army would certainly be moving north and west, against the rebels. It seemed to me, too, sometimes, that if the war would just go away, we could all live quite happily in the house on Princess Street.

* * *

**Part 1 of 2**

**Notes:**

McCavity, of course, is from _Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats_, by T.S. Eliot.

McCavity, McCavity, there's no one like McCavity.

He's broken every human law: he breaks the laws of gravity…

The cows' names come from a favorite book of mine, _Cold Comfort Farm_, by Stella Gibbons. A true hoot.

The hymn is by Sir Thomas Arne, 1710-1778.

_Goody Two-Shoes_ is one of a series of six-penny books for children. It is attributed to Oliver Goldsmith, and was published in 1765.

"Eyes blue as forget-me-nots" is obviously stolen from Barrie's Captain Hook.

For those of you who do not have cats: they really will express their dislike of an intruder. A young visitor one summer was deemed an interloper and had her bed repeatedly soiled by the indignant feline (until she learned to keep the door shut).


	6. The Madwoman of Princess Street Part Two

Disclaimer: The makers of the film _The Patriot_ own Colonel Tavington. I own the rest.

Genre: romance/fantasy

Even the best-prepared researcher might not be equal to an extended stay in the past. A young Colonial servant relates the story of her mysterious employer and a British officer…

The Madwoman of Princess Street

Part Two

The Colonel had gone scouting, and Mr McKenzie had gone with him, of course. Their absence left the house surprisingly forlorn. Mrs McKenzie went sturdily about her work, used to such separations. Miss Lindsey was helping me make a new cap—a very pretty one that I should have to wear to church. It began raining on Thursday afternoon, and the rain grew harder, and the skies darker. I felt bad, thinking of the Colonel and poor Mr McKenzie, riding out there in the wet, soaked to the skin.

Miss Lindsey seemed very depressed. She grew quiet, and did not converse much as she helped me with the tricky curved seams of my new cap. There was a flash of lightning, followed by a distant rumble. McCavity raced into the room and hid under the sofa.

"Oh, McCavity," she sighed. "It can't hurt you in here. Come up and sit on the sofa with us." The cat paid her no heed, and did not come out while the storm lasted. The little boys had been sent upstairs out of the rain and were roughhousing in the attic, making thunder of their own. We could hear them all the way down in the parlour.

After awhile, Miss Lindsey went over to the pianoforte, and began playing a very strange piece. It wasn't like any song I had ever heard, but was full of strange dissonances and broken chords. It sounded like the storm and then the last little raindrops. It was very, very loud, and then so soft I could hardly hear it, and it finished with a high bright chord like the sun coming out of the clouds. Miss Lindsey had been behaving almost normally lately, except at eight o'clock, and the wild music surprised and frightened me a little. When she was done, she sat at the pianoforte for a long minute, her hands resting soundlessly on the keys. She turned and saw my face, and gave me an odd smile.

"_Jardins sous la pluie_," she said. I must have looked very blank, for she explained. "That's French. It means _Gardens in the Rain."_

"It was very unusual," I commented uneasily. "Did you make that up yourself, ma'am?"

"No, indeed!" she laughed. "A wonderful work by Claude Debussy." She stroked the keys thoughtfully. "I do miss Debussy. And Brahms, and Ravel, and Rachmaninoff." An even stranger expression flickered in her eyes. "I wonder what you'd think of Prokofiev?"

I must still have looked confused, and she laughed again. "And no, there's no reason you should ever have heard of them—and no reason for you ever to hear of them again. I'm sorry—it must have sounded very peculiar. Come here, and we'll play something you'll like better."

Saturday night, Mrs McKenzie carried the bathtub downstairs, and everyone had a hot bath in the kitchen, even the two struggling, dirty little boys. Bath night always vexed Miss Lindsey. I received the impression that she felt it was all more trouble than it ought to be, but she entered into it with a will, even washing my hair with fine Castile soap. She combed it out for me, and I felt beautifully clean and ready for the joys of Sunday.

And late that Sunday afternoon, the Colonel came back.

He and Mr McKenzie were all right, but for some scrapes and a great deal of dirt. Mr McKenzie carried the tub and the water upstairs for the Colonel's bath; and he himself had a wash in the wellhouse with the attendance of Mrs McKenzie, while I kept the little boys occupied. Mrs McKenzie was so happy to see her husband, and they came back to the kitchen beaming: he much cleaner, and she very bright-eyed indeed.

The men had missed dinner, so Mrs McKenzie set to making an especially fine supper for all of us. She even allowed Miss Lindsey back into the kitchen to make a cake, rich with nuts and raisins, layered with custard and topped with sweetened cream. The little boys and I helped in the kitchen, carefully removing the seeds from the raisins, and eating nearly as many as we gave to Miss Lindsey for the cake. It was all very festive, and it felt something like a homecoming.

Miss Lindsey wore her pretty blue gown, and the candles were lit in the dining room. I helped Mrs McKenzie wait at table and saw that all was well there, too. Miss Lindsey and the Colonel looked at each other across the table and smiled. Spontaneously, they began talking to each other: she asking him all about his adventures; he telling her all the details with every evidence of pleasure and satisfied vanity. At length, we brought in the cake, and the Colonel was suitably grateful and delighted. Miss Lindsey sent us back to the kitchen, to our own supper, and she and Colonel remained at the table, chatting animatedly.

They were so engrossed in their conversation that no one noticed the time or the chime of the hall clock. So it was quite a shock, when we heard Miss Lindsey cry out, "_Oh, God!"_ and the sound of a glass shattering. "Hannah! _Hannah!"_

The McKenzies stared at each other amazed. I raced into the dining room. Miss Lindsey had risen to her feet, hand to her heart, and gasped, "Oh, Hannah! It's nearly a quarter past! Run upstairs to the attic! I'll look in the parlour and then the bedrooms! Hurry!" I took to my heels, running for the staircase. Miss Lindsey's voice followed me, raw and agonized. "And, oh, Hannah, look _carefully!"_

Colonel Tavington called out, "Miss Lindsey, calm yourself—"

I heard my mistress behind me, as she dashed in to the parlour and after less than five seconds, dashed out again. I was already going up the attic stairs when I heard her on the front stairs, crying, "Wait! Wait!" She slammed a door open, and ran in, then out, and then slammed open another. I ran through the attic, my heart pounding, and my eyes searched the neat chamber of Mr and Mrs McKenzie. I flung myself on the floor, bruising my elbows, to peer under the bed, and then scrambled away on all fours, and was up and running for the little boys' room. I could hear the McKenzies' urgent questions, and Colonel Tavington's voice, raised in discussion. Downstairs, I heard another door slam open.

The quarter hour chimed. Miss Lindsey screamed, _"No!"_

I ran downstairs. She had not managed to reach the second spare bedroom, and had fallen to her knees, wailing. "_No, no, no, no…"_

Colonel Tavington was running up the stairs. He shouted behind him. "McKenzie, keep those children of yours away!"

Miss Lindsey was simply beside herself. She pounded her fists against the shining wood floor, and shrieked, "I want to go home! I want to go home! I can't stand it here anymore! I want to go home! Itsnotfairnotfairnotfair!" Then she screamed again, wild and long. In a moment the Colonel was down on his knees beside her, his arms about her, trying to restrain her. She screamed again, arms flailing.

"Hysteria," the Colonel muttered, catching her hands in his, holding her fast to quiet her shaking. "Mrs McKenzie, bring us a cup of strong, sweet tea."

"Perhaps a surgeon—" Mrs McKenzie suggested.

"No!" Miss Lindsey cried, looking horrified. "_No doctors!_"

She began gasping for breath, and the Colonel waved Mrs McKenzie off to the kitchen. He dismissed his orderly as well. "I can deal with this, McKenzie. Take your children up to their beds, and send your wife on when she has the tea." He held Miss Lindsey firmly, and asked, "You need to lie down, Madam. Can you walk?"

She replied with an incoherent mew, and he blew out a breath and stood, lifting her in his arms. "Get the door, Hannah," he directed me. I ran ahead, and opened the door as he carried her in and laid her gently on her bed. She whimpered, and he helped her sit up. "That cannot be comfortable," he agreed, and supporting her against him, he unpinned her cap and handed it to me. Her hairpins followed, he searching through her locks and placing each hairpin in my open palm. He ran his fingers carefully through her hair for hidden pins, while she gave an exhausted sob every few moments. "Fetch me her hairbrush," he ordered, and I obeyed instantly, glad that he knew what to do.

Miss Lindsey had very pretty, shining hair, with some curl at the ends. Colonel Tavington smiled slightly as he began brushing it with long, firm strokes. She became quieter, and sat listlessly while he brushed out her hair. He brushed her hair back from her brow, and then lifted her hair from the nape of her neck, carefully untangling it. She sighed, but she must have liked it, for everyone likes having her hair brushed.

Mrs McKenzie came with the tea, and looked relieved to see Miss Lindsey quiet. "Thank you, Mrs McKenzie," said the Colonel. "That will be all. See that the fires are out and the house locked for the night. Hannah and I can take care of the lady."

"Yes, sir," Mrs McKenzie replied. "Goodnight sir—and ma'am. I hope you feel better in the morning."

Miss Lindsey, sipping her tea, made an unintelligible response, but it satisfied Mrs McKenzie, who bustled away. The Colonel gave me the hairbrush, and steadied Miss Lindsey's trembling hands while she took another sip.

Miss Lindsey cleared her throat, and croaked out, "I'll never get home, now. I want to go home."

I shot the Colonel a worried glance, but he was perfectly calm. "My dear, you _are_ home. You have a lovely home and you are safely in it right now. No matter where you might have lived in the past" (she gave a nervous laugh), "or where you might wish to live in the future, _this_ is your home now." She laughed again, very sadly, I thought, and the Colonel held her close and stroked his hands down her arms in a soothing rhythm.

"I'm so tired," she whispered. "You can't understand what it's like. I've done everything they told me. I've kept my research notes up to date. They promised it would be three months, but it's been over two years. I shouldn't have to be here in the middle of a war. I can't keep up the pretense any longer." She took a long drink and sighed. "I'm so alone."

"My dear, you are not alone. Here is Hannah." He gave me a nod, and I stood in front of Miss Lindsey. "See, here is Hannah, and she depends upon you. What would become of her without you?"

_What, indeed?_ I shivered at the thought of leaving this house, if Miss Lindsey were to be taken away.

"I'm not supposed to get close to people," she protested weakly. "I'm supposed to be an objective observer. If I care about people, I'll interfere with their lives and cause all sorts of trouble. And I'm not supposed to let anyone care about me."

He pulled her close, and brushed his lips against her brow. "Too late." Her head rested against his shoulder. At a glance from him, I took the empty teacup from her.

Speaking very earnestly, he said, "My dear, you must forget this obsession. This is your home. There is no other. You put yourself in a very dangerous situation with these fancies." He lifted her head up so he looked in her eyes. "This is your home."

"This is my home," she repeated dully. She still looked very sad, but we were both pleased and relieved at her acquiescence.

He smiled briefly. "That's better. Now you need some rest. Hannah, I think it is time you were in bed, too. I shall stay a little with Miss Lindsey, and I am sure she will feel better in the morning."

I did not want to leave her, but I was not bold enough to challenge Colonel Tavington. I gathered my courage sufficiently to lean forward and kiss Miss Lindsey's pale cheek. "Good night, dear Miss Lindsey. I hope you sleep well." To my surprise, she reached out and pulled me against her, and kissed my forehead.

"Thank you, my sweet little girl. Don't worry about me. I'll be all right."

Colonel Tavington looked approvingly at me, and bade me goodnight, with a quiet, "Be sure to close the door."

As I left the room, I heard his voice soften, as he asked her, "My dear Miss Lindsey, will you not tell me your Christian name?"

"Diana," she whispered.

"Diana." He echoed it tenderly. "It is the sweetest name." He nuzzled her again, kissing her brow, and then her ear. "You will rumple your gown. Let me see to your comfort…"

I shut the door behind me, and heard no more.

* * *

The next day, Miss Lindsey slept late. I finished my work in the cowshed and coop, and at breakfast Mrs McKenzie told me that the Colonel had thought it best that I take a tray up to her no earlier than nine o'clock. Both the Colonel and Mr McKenzie had already left for the camp, and would not be back for some hours. 

Walking gingerly upstairs with the laden tray, I saw McCavity waiting patiently outside her door. I knocked softly, and received an equally soft, "Come in." McCavity trotted in ahead of me and leaped up on the bed, sniffing the bedclothes with a suspicious air.

She was already sitting up, propped up on the pillows, modestly arranging her nightdress, and looking about the bed to tidy it, I suppose. Her hair was very disheveled, but she seemed calm, and even happy. Her cheeks were pink, and there was a certain air of embarrassment about her. I knew she was probably terribly ashamed of her fit last night, and I wanted to do nothing to remind her of it.

She drank her tea and nibbled her toast. She leaned forward and saw herself in her mirror. "What a mess. Hannah, bring me my hairbrush, please. My hair looks like a rat's nest."

"And the Colonel brushed it so nicely last night, Ma'am."

"Ha!" She tried to hide her smile, but she couldn't, and turned even pinker. "Yes, the Colonel's a man of many talents." She brushed her hair slowly, starting at the ends. "I won't bother to put up my hair right now, Hannah. I'll just braid it and tie it with the blue ribbon, and put—that—cap over it."

I helped her with these preparations, and set about cleaning and straightening her room. She lay back on the pillows, quite relaxed. I was in and out for a while, but McCavity remained cuddled against her on the bed. She stroked his fur lazily, and seemed to be lost in pleasant thought.

"Will you leave your bed today, Ma'am?"

"Oh, yes, I'll be down for dinner, certainly."

I left her, and went next door to do the Colonel's room. He had taken her earlier rebukes to heart. His room looked barely used. I appreciated his consideration, and was done much more quickly than usual. Indeed, in the days to come, his room was always uncommonly neat.

He took his meals with us more frequently. I well remember how he and Miss Lindsey would just look at each other and smile, sitting at the polished dining table. Sometimes she would blush, and look down. He, however, would just smile the more. They would talk softly, and when he was there in the evenings, they would go to the parlour together, and she would play the pianoforte for him: pleasant Scottish and Irish airs, and grander pieces by foreigners with German and Italian names. Sometimes the clock would chime eight, and Miss Lindsey would pause for an extra beat, hesitating over the keys. Colonel Tavington watched her with an anxious countenance, but she would continue playing. Searching the house at eight o'clock for the bogeyman, as Mrs McKenzie said, was a thing of the past. She and Mr McKenzie exchanged knowing smiles and nods. Occasionally I sat in the parlour with my mistress and the Colonel, but I was always sent to bed by half-past eight, leaving them to each other's company.

Miss Lindsey had stopped writing in her journal as well. The books were stacked on top of the bookshelves, and would have gathered dust, but for Mrs McKenzie's labours. Altogether, Miss Lindsey seemed much better and happier, though she must have had disturbing dreams. One night, she cried out, waking me from my slumber. I ran to her room to see if she needed me. It was locked, and I knocked and asked, "Miss Lindsey, are you all right?"

Her voice was strangely muffled, and she called back, "Yes, Hannah, I'm quite all right. It was only a dream." She sounded as if she were laughing, but I was too groggy to make much of it, and went back to bed and to sleep.

So the days passed. The Colonel was gone more and more often and for longer each time. The talk everywhere was that the army would be moving north within the week. Miss Lindsey grew sad. I understood that she hated the war, and was afraid for the Colonel. She had never said what side she held to, but I had always assumed that she was for the King, because she and Colonel were so fond of one another. Near the end of his stay with us, though, I overheard some exchanges that made me wonder if I had been wrong.

He had come back after a patrol, and Miss Lindsey had gone upstairs to see if he needed anything. She did not know that I was in my room reading, and once they started talking, I did not wish to make my presence known. Miss Lindsey, it seemed, did not want him to go with the army. She wanted him to resign his commission and leave the war to others. He must have wondered if she had gone mad again.

I heard her voice, low and urgent. "The King doesn't need you. Let him lose the war by himself. Why risk your life for a doomed cause?"

He was very offended. "Diana, you know nothing of such things. I do not interfere with your housekeeping. Leave men's business to men."

"How can you imagine it has nothing to do with me? Women have to live in the world, after all. I can't bear the thought of you giving your life for nothing. You're in terrible danger if you go north! If the King wants to fight, let him come here himself!"

"That's enough!" He lowered his voice. "It is only natural for a woman to be fearful, but you are wrong. I have never lost a battle."

"Don't you see—" she sounded like she might cry. "Don't you see that you can win every battle and still lose this war? No—please listen to me—a few thousand soldiers, however brave and professional, cannot win a war in this vast place. The war was lost before the first shot was fired, when the King failed to deal with the Colonists' grievances."

"I had no idea, Madam," he replied coldly, "that you were such an ardent rebel."

"I'm not a rebel!" she protested. "Please don't be angry with me, William. I'm so afraid for you. Listen, I have some money—not a huge fortune—but nearly twelve thousand pounds." There was a silence, and then the Colonel's exclamation of surprise. "Yes, really and truly. You could resign your commission, we could go anywhere you like—you don't have to throw your life away."

"Calm yourself! Sit down, and here, blow your nose! You must not allow yourself to become so excited." After a few moments, he began speaking again. I crept to the door to hear better. I knew it was wrong, but I had to know what the future held. The Colonel said, "My dear Diana, I would be a shabby sort of man who would take your money without expending any personal effort to restore my family's fortunes. You may as well know this—my father was a fool and a spendthrift, and he squandered his fortune and my inheritance. He dragged our name through the muck, and I have sworn to redeem it. I have every reason to hope for fortune and advancement from this campaign. In the last war, the King rewarded his soldiers with land grants and appointments. I have great expectations, and I cannot give them up because you are frightened." There was quiet murmur, and then he continued, "Of course I care for you. I feel the greatest tenderness and esteem for you. You are a lovely and refined woman, and your care for that poor child shows that you would be an excellent mother. That you have a considerable personal fortune could indeed smooth our path. First, however, I must make my reputation and earn my just reward. Then, and _only_ then, can I consider private life. I shall be leaving with the army in two days. If all goes as I hope, we can plan our future upon my return."

"I see." I heard her getting to her feet, and I moved behind my door, peering through the crack at the hall. "There's nothing more to be said, then."

"Diana, I _will_ be back. You must not imagine that I do not love—"

"Don't! Just don't! Don't humour the madwoman. I know I'll never see you again." She burst out his room and ran into her own. I could hear her sobbing, but dared not go to her. The Colonel came out of his room, and shook his head impatiently. "Women!" he muttered. "Let her have her cry. Quite irrational." He went downstairs and I heard the front door open and close.

The McKenzies began packing to leave. Mrs McKenzie gave the house a good cleaning as a parting gift, she said. I realized that I would miss them, even the little boys. They would be going on a great adventure, and living in tents. Perhaps it might be difficult, but it would be very exciting. Miss Lindsey found presents for them all: small, portable, useful things to ease their journey.

The Colonel and Miss Lindsey went to the parlour that last night and sent me off to bed early. They must have sat up talking until very late, for they both looked tired the next day, when the Colonel took his leave. He kissed my forehead, and gave me three shillings. He kissed Miss Lindsey's hand, and put a piece of paper in it, closing her fingers around it.

"I _will_ be back."

We stood in the doorway a long time after he had gone. She finally looked at the paper, and opened it. She gave a little gasping laugh, and read:

"Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love."

"But that's beautiful, Ma'am," I exclaimed eagerly. "That proves he loves you. He wrote a poem for you!"

"Hannah," she said, her mouth twisted in despair, "that poem was written for a madwoman. And the sun _doesn't_ move."

* * *

For the first few days after the Colonel left, Miss Lindsey hardly spoke. She dragged herself about her chores, not even happy to have the kitchen to herself. She cooked, she cleaned, she heard my lessons. It was all done dutifully and without joy. She did not resume either her journal writing or the eight o'clock house searches. The house grew dingy, and she would huddle silently on the sofa, stroking McCavity, staring blindly out the parlour window. He, good cat that he was, seemed to understand his importance, for his purrs resounded as though he thought they could heal her. 

She grew resigned, and began talking very gradually by the end of that first week. She missed the Colonel terribly, I could see, and once I dared to mention him.

"When do you suppose Colonel Tavington's coming back, ma'am?"

Curtly, she replied, "He's never coming back."

I objected. "But he said he loved—"

"Hannah, don't!" I shut my mouth, abashed. She went on, her face bleak, "That's just something men say. It doesn't mean anything. The Colonel left, and the rebels are going to kill him. Even if he _were_ to survive, he'd still find someone else he liked better. Someone younger, prettier, richer, and—_sane._ It was a happy time when he was here. I would have stayed with him. I would have given up everything, but he's gone now, and he won't come again. He's gone forever. So," she said, wiping her eyes, and pretending not to care, "we need to think about important things, like a new dress for you. I declare that you grow an inch every time I turn around!"

We resumed our quiet mode of life. She engaged Mama to make my new dress—green with pink flowers and a striped petticoat, this time, and I read and practiced writing. I learned new pieces on the pianoforte. We briefly had an officer or two billeted in the house from time to time, but Miss Lindsey had little interest in them. She cleaned their rooms herself, and spoke only necessary words to them. We kept ourselves to ourselves.

So the weeks passed, and then the months. We often heard about the Colonel. Some people called him "The Butcher of the Carolinas," and "Bloody Tavington." The names had nothing to do with the man I knew. We read of his victories and his raids on the rebels. He was making quite a name for himself. I never commented on the stories, but I would leave the newspapers where I knew Miss Lindsey would find them. She would sit and read about him, saying never a word. She kept the papers, though.

It was late in July, when I went upstairs one evening after finishing in the cowshed. I tidied myself, and looked through my linen drawer for something to monogram. The hall clock chimed eight, but I shrugged the old habit away, as I always did. I turned to leave the room.

And then I saw the blue light.

It was shaped like a door: glowing, pulsing, as it shone out from the wall facing the window. It was as if I could see through the wall and the light into a room beyond. Hesitantly I reached out to touch it, and then pulled back afraid.

_Miss Lindsey, _I remembered. _Lights and new doors._ I stood there nearly a minute, trying to collect my thoughts. Then I ran to the top of the stairs, calling out, "Miss Lindsey! Miss Lindsey! It's the light! It's here!"

She came out the parlour and looked up at me, her face drained of colour.

I shouted, trying to make her believe, "It's here! Come see! It's your door!" I ran downstairs and grabbed her hand, trying to pull her along.

Wearily she followed me, stumbling on the steps, "Hannah," she protested, "Hannah, don't be mean."

"I'm not being mean. It's a blue light and a door! Come see!" I pulled her into my room and waved at the glowing blue rectangle of light.

She stopped still, and then _she_ screamed. "Hannah! Find McCavity! I've got to get my notes!" She ran downstairs so fast she nearly fell, and I ran too, remembering I'd seen McCavity in the kitchen. He was surprised when he saw me run after him, but I scooped him up and ran to the parlour, where Miss Lindsey was busy writing. She folded a paper and stamped her seal into the wax. Another note lay on top of the writing desk.

"Here," she said, giving it to me. "I had Mr Cox, the lawyer, witness this a little after you came to me. It says that when I leave, this house and everything in it is yours." I gasped, but she went on, speaking quickly, "The money box is under my bed. There's a lot of money there, so be careful with it! Take this note to your mother right away, and don't lose it or let anyone take it away from you."

"You're going," I mumbled, feeling my eyes start to burn. I never imagined that Miss Lindsey would really go. Everyone had said they were a lonely spinster's crazy notions, and I had believed that myself. Just an _eccentricity._ But she was really leaving. "What about Colonel Tavington?"

Her face crumpled, and she blinked away tears and shook her head. "He's never coming back, anyway." She sounded like she had convinced herself, and she laughed bitterly. "There was never any real hope of a long-term relationship, there. Not if he stayed in the army, certainly. No future there at all." She saw I was disappointed, and tapped the sealed message on the desk. "If, by some miracle, he _does_ return before he—well, give him this. If he looks at it carefully, he'll know I wasn't crazy. Tell him—" she stopped. "What's the use? Just tell him the truth, and that I had to leave. But don't tell anyone else, or they'll think _you're_ the crazy one."

She got up, carrying her stack of journals. "Quick, now," she said. It was twelve past the hour, and we ran upstairs: she, with her journals, and I carrying McCavity, who was fidgeting and trying to get down.

The light in the wall was brighter than ever. The blue light reflected off the windows. If it had been dark outside, the whole town would have seen it. Miss Lindsey tucked her journals under one arm, and reached for McCavity. He saw the blue light, and screeched, striking out with his paw and scratching a bloody steak across her arm. She cried out, and dropped the notebooks. He wriggled out of my arms, and ran away, a blur of speed.

I started to go after him, but Miss Lindsey grabbed my shoulder. "Don't chase him! He's your cat now!" She dropped to the floor to gather the scattered books, and I helped her. She held them close to her chest, took a deep breath, and walked right through the wall. I could still see her. She was blue as well, glowing like the wall. She turned and faced me, and I saw her lips move with the words, "Good-bye." There was no sound. The glowing blue shape began to shrink. Miss Lindsey shrank with it: smaller and smaller, until she was the size of a child, the size of a doll, and then there was a bright blue dot, and then nothing.

I sat down on the floor, staring at the wall. Finally, I got up the courage to touch the place where the door had been. It was smooth, hard, and cool. There was no sign of the blue light, or the door, or Miss Lindsey, or anything but plaster and paint. I sat down again and started to cry. I thought about the big brick house, all mine, and Mama and Becky and Andrew coming to live in it. I thought about my music lessons, and Miss Lindsey washing my hair. I thought about showing Mama the money box. I thought about Miss Lindsey and Colonel Tavington, looking at each other across the dining table in the soft light of candles. I wanted every one of those things to be true at the same time, and I just sobbed.

It was getting late, and I didn't know what to do, so I curled up on my bed with all my clothes on, staring at the wall. After awhile, my eyes closed, and I was asleep.

* * *

On a sunny day in September, I was watching Becky and Andrew at play in the garden, when I saw a tall figure in a red coat walk with a familiar, swaggering gait up to our front door. Leaving Becky to keep Andrew safe, I crept around the corner of the house and heard Colonel Tavington's startled voice, saying, "Gone! Gone where?" 

Our housekeeper shook her head, giving him a soft answer, and she shut the door. Colonel Tavington stood there absolutely thunderstruck, not even moving for a moment. He blew out a breath, looking confused and very disappointed. I edged closer, and he saw me.

"Hannah!" he called. "What is this? The servant says that Miss Lindsey is gone, and gave everything to you. What does she mean? Do you know where she went?"

As shyly as at our first meeting, I approached him. I hardly knew what to say that he would believe. Then I remembered the sealed paper. "She went away suddenly, Colonel. But if you would be pleased to wait, I can get something she left for you."

I ran inside and up to my room. The sealed paper was still in my top drawer. I hurried downstairs and outside. Colonel Tavington was waiting under a tree, a vexed and worried frown creasing his brow. I slowed down, thinking over what to say.

"Well?" He put out his hand for the message.

"Before I give it to you, I have to explain what happened. Nobody knows but me. Miss Lindsey left a letter saying she was going away, and that the house and everything in was mine. I told everybody that she just left, but I didn't tell them everything."

He waited, his eyes fixed on me.

"You know how she used to go through the house looking for lights and door?" He drew breath in anger, but I hastily continued. "I swear on the Bible that I'm not lying. One night I was up in my room and there was a blue light on the wall and I called for Miss Lindsey, and it was real." His mouth opened, but no sound came out. "She screamed when she saw it, and then she ran downstairs and got all those books she had written in and took them with her. She wanted to take McCavity, too, but he was afraid of the light and ran away. And then she remembered you and started to cry, but she told me she had to go and to give you this. 'If he looks at it carefully, he'll understand,' she said. And then she walked into the blue light, right through the wall, and she turned and looked at me and the light got smaller and smaller and she disappeared." I gave him the sealed paper, and he turned it over with a wondering look. There was no one else in the world to whom I could confide my secret thoughts, and so I solemnly told him, "I reckon she was an angel."

He stared at me as if I were a lunatic, and ripped the seal open. Inside was no writing, but a copper coin that I thought must be a penny. Colonel Tavington looked at it, very puzzled. He brought it close and studied it, and then he laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh, but a bitter, harsh sound. He looked up at the sky, and then he looked at the coin some more. He glanced at me again, and cleared his throat. "Did she say if she was coming back?"

"I don't think she's ever coming back, sir. I don't think she can. And she surely didn't think _you_ were ever coming back. She took that poem you gave her to mean that you really thought she was mad."

He stared at the ground, saying nothing at all for awhile. Then he lifted his chin, and shrugged himself straight. "We seem to have been very much at cross purposes. She should have trusted me with the truth. I would have believed her." He was hurt, I could see. He muttered, more to himself than to me, "She must have feared I would torment her with questions. She feared to meddle with Fate." He looked at me, and I knew he was seeing not me, but her. He repeated softly. "She should have trusted me. But perhaps she had good reason to think I would not return."

He weighed the coin in his hand, and flipped it into the air. It made a shining, coppery arc, and he caught it deftly. Carefully, he put it away in the pocket nearest his heart. He gave me a faint smile. "So you are now, Miss Hannah Clay, a young lady of property and prospects?"

"Yes, Colonel. Miss Lindsey gave it all to me, and we are very grateful. We were so poor before, and now we'll never want for anything ever again."

"Then perhaps it was not all for nothing." He put his hand gently on my head. "Goodbye then, my dear Hannah."

He made to go, but I saw him take a last look up at the window of Miss Lindsey's room. He sighed, and then strode down the street, the jingling of his spurs fading off into the distance. He turned at the corner, and was gone.

* * *

I never saw him again. Months later, word came that the Colonel was dead, killed by the rebels up north at the Cowpens. It grieved me, imagining his strong body laid out under the earth. I wondered if the coin Miss Lindsey left for him was still in the pocket over his heart. 

Years have passed. I am, as you know, a wealthy and respected lady, and no one ever speaks of the time when Mama could barely hold body and soul together with her sewing. The days of the British in Charlestown sometimes seem as distant and unreal as a fairy tale. McCavity has long since gone to a tomcat's reward, mourned briefly by the she-cats of the neighborhood. Life moves on, and leaves the departed behind in the wake of memory. A few people tell stories about the madwoman who lived here once. No one really remembers Miss Lindsey but me. But still, now and then, when the clock chimes eight, I go up to my room and gaze at the wall facing the window, half hoping for the blue light, and the open door…

* * *

End Part 2 of 2 

**Notes:**

"No doctors!" If you have ever seen the sublime film, _The Adventures of Baron Munchausen_, you'll understand. 

_"Doubt thou…"_ Hamlet to Ophelia.


	7. Mary Sue Hams It Up

Disclaimer: The makers of the film _The Patriot_ own Colonel Tavington. Mary Sue is the common property of us all.

Genre: comedy/parody

Let us move on to less serious tales. In this installment, an aspiring actress (and fanfic author) finds herself the heroine of her very own Tavington fic. But things are not always what they seem...

**Episode 6: Mary Sue Hams it Up**

**by Zubenschamali aka Beta Librae **

Tiffany regarded her reflection in the dressing room mirror with smug satisfaction. Her golden hair was heaped high atop her head, with a ringlet escaping on either side to fall to her bare white shoulders–white as the stars spangling the satin of her indigo overdress, which in turn perfectly matched her star-sapphire eyes, while her lips were the same scarlet as the red stripes of her red-and-white striped petticoat. All in all, she looked every inch the part of the beautiful, feisty, all-American Mary Slocumb, heroine of her history professor's brilliant new play about the War of Independence, which was being staged by her college drama department and had its premiere tonight.

Tiffany loved to portray Mary standing up to cruel, lustful British officers like Major Patrick Ferguson and especially, Colonel Banastre Tarleton, and their barbaric troops. It just made her feel so inspirational and patriotic! At the same time, moreover, she could pretend to herself that she was heroine Virginia Martin in her very own _Patriot_ fanfic "Unvanquished Patriot Heart". Virginia was Ben Martin's 18-year-old OFC eldest daughter, and soon found herself fighting her own private War of Independence when she caught the eye of the undeniably attractive but indisputably evil Colonel William Tavington.

Tiffany's lip curled as she thought of all those pathetic fics where the American heroines were victimized by Tavington, only to eventually fall in love with him. _Her_ story was a really sophisticated and realistic piece of fiction. _She'd_ refused to even contemplate having Virginia betray her glorious cause (or her heroic suitor, Lieutenant Henry Cleveland) by falling in love with an evil English butcher who was oppressing her fellow countrymen, or even be attracted to him in spite of herself when he tried to force his attentions on her.

She patted her hair, tugged her plunging neckline even lower, and gave her reflection one last self-satisfied smirk. Then she emerged from the dressing room to join her fellow cast members in the wings. A number of her fellow actresses eyed her sourly. _They_ had all auditioned for the part of Mary Slocumb as well. But Tina and Jennifer–begowned in gaudy satin trimmed in cheap black lace, their faces plastered with makeup–were instead cast as Major Ferguson's sleazy mistresses, while Carla, Amber, Monica and Trish–tricked out fussy ruffled dresses and towering powdered wigs–had to play some stuffy stuck-up British and Tory ladies. Tiffany returned their resentful stares with a superior look. _Well, pardon _me _for being better-looking and more talented!_ she thought complacently.

She smiled warmly at Josh, the hunky college football star who played her husband, and condescendingly at Phil, the British exchange student who played Colonel Tarleton. It pleased her no end that most English people nowadays seemed to realize that their side had been completely in the wrong, and, like Phil–and Jason Isaacs in _The Patriot_, for that matter–were more than willing to make amends by lending their talents to truthful and accurate dramatic productions about the American Revolution.

Beyond them, the curtain began to rise on the set representing the moonlit front lawn of the Slocumbs' plantation. Tiffany gathered up her skirts and swept onstage; her skin tingled strangely as she passed into the eerie glow of the blue-white floodlight. She opened her mouth to utter the first line of her opening monologue–and gasped instead: before her lay not a dimly-seen audience, but a pastoral landscape bathed in genuine moonlight! She whirled around to see, not a set and painted backdrop, but the front facade of a real plantation house! Looking down, she saw that she herself was now clad in a modest muslin gown with a kerchief tucked into the bodice.

"Miss Virginia!" came an urgent voice from close by. "Your father says for you to come in at once! 'T'ain't safe for you to be out here all alone with all these soldiers about."

_Abigale! _And she had called _her_ _"Virginia"!_ So often during rehearsals she had completely lost herself in the role and felt that she actually _was_ Mary or even, at times, Virginia, really living back during the American Revolution. But _this_ time, it _had_ to be for real. She pinched herself inobtrusively. Yes, there could be no doubt: reality didn't come flooding back for her to find herself standing on the stage in the auditorium; the scene around her remained the same, and now she became aware of campfires burning beyond the far side of the house and the hubbub of many voices.

So, she must have arrived not long after the point in her story where Tavington took over Fresh Water following the nearby battle. For Fresh Water hadn't been burned–or Gabriel marched off as a prisoner or Thomas shot for trying to save him–in her fic, though of course this wasn't to make Tavington look merciful. Since her OFC was the focus of "Unvanquished Patriot Heart", she'd needed to make some adjustments to the original storyline to accommodate Virginia's starring role: in her version, after slaughtering all the Rebel wounded, Tavington decided to make an example of Gabriel by interrogating and then executing him at his own home, in front of his own family, waiting until the next day to carry out the cruel deed in order to prolong their anguish; this new development allowed Virginia to take centre stage. She bravely kept Tavington's attention diverted while Thomas helped Gabriel escape from the cellar where he was imprisoned, and then, when Gabriel's absence was discovered, selflessly drew Tavington's wrath away from her family and down onto herself by convincing him that she, not Thomas, had helped Gabriel escape and that she, not Gabriel, was really the spy. The vengeful (and lustful) Colonel took this lovely young "spy" prisoner in her brother's stead and dragged her back to his quarters at camp for "questioning", which sparked Ben's crusade.

Tiffany realized with a sudden sense of urgency that it must be time for her to spring into action: Virginia and Thomas had decided (well, it was all _her_ decision, really, since she was the brains of the operation and her adoring younger brother totally looked up to her) to set their plan in motion after dark.

"Yes, of course, I shall go in at once," she said to Abigale, barely looking at her as she brushed past her and ran up the porch steps and into the house. In there was Tavington, and it was time for her to serve the Patriot cause by turning this lecherous monster's obvious preoccupation with Virginia to her advantage, not letting herself out of his sight all evening and courageously enduring his repugnant company...even complying–though anything but meekly–with his demands that she entertain him with her singing and piano-playing, and more disgusting still, that she give him a bath. Her heart raced and her nerves tingled–with fear and distaste for the ordeal ahead, of course.

She paused in the hallway; then, hearing the unmistakable sound of Tavington's voice from within the dining room, she drew a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and swept into the room. At least, she'd meant to sweep. Instead, in her nervousness, she pushed at the partially-open door with too much force, causing it to fly back against the dining room wall with a resounding crash, while she herself went skidding across the threshold like a total klutz.

"I came back inside, just as you bade me, father," she burst out in a breathless, high-pitched voice, cursing inwardly as the words left her lips–_Goddammit! _A fine debut she was making, acting and sounding like she was only around Margaret's age!

The men had all stood as she entered, and she met Tavington's eyes–those amazing ice-blue eyes, set in such an incredibly handsome face–defiantly, only to be overcome with renewed consternation: he was regarding her with rather disdainful amusement, nothing more.

"Very good, Virginia," said Benjamin quietly. "Now you had best help Abigale ready the children for bed."

Tiffany opened her mouth to protest, but was quelled by the stern look her "father" directed at her.

"Come along, Miss Virginia," murmured Abigale, who had slipped inobtrusively into the room behind her. "Leave the gentlemen to their after-dinner port."

Tiffany tossed her head and flounced out, angered at being ordered about like a mere child. She _was_ mistress of Fresh Water, after all! And Abigale was only a servant–who was she to boss her around? More importantly, _what_ could Tavington be up to, acting like he wasn't even interested in her? Oh, he'd been practically salivating all right–but over Ben's sensuous, full-bodied _wine_, not her: she'd received the distinct impression that he could hardly wait to sit down again and get back to his drink! Presumably Thomas was carrying out his part of the plan right now, but it was unthinkable that she miss out on being heroine of the hour, upstaged by a bloody bottle of wine!

She stomped up the stairs ahead of Abigale, and was snappish and impatient with her frightened little "brothers" and "sisters" as she helped Abigale put them to bed. After that, she went sulkily into Virginia's bedroom.

_Why_ weren't things working out as planned? It was absolutely crucial that Tavington start coming on to her–all so she could teach him a lesson about the Patriots' cause being true and just and that they could never be defeated, of course. She stared sullenly at her reflection in the cheval glass. Then inspiration struck. This outfit made her look so young and prissy–maybe if she looked older everyone would start taking her more seriously.

She leapt to her feet and ran down the hall to the room Elizabeth Martin had shared with her husband. Good, all the late Mrs. Martin's gowns were still stored in the clothespress. Tiffany supposed that they might be a bit out of fashion, but the fanciest ones were still an improvement on what she was wearing. She selected an especially pretty rose silk one, and struggled out of the frumpy muslin and into it. A _bit_ large on her, but she already looked much more sexy and sophisticated. Now to do something about her hair. Once she had torn off her stupid cap and swept her hair up onto her head, she rummaged around and found some exquisite pieces of jewellry to complete her ensemble.

She then descended to the first floor. The men had moved to the drawing room by now, and she knew that it was acceptable for ladies to be present in the drawing room when the gentlemen went there after dinner. In fact, as their hostess it was her _duty _to be there, she told herself.

She opened the door and went in–gracefully this time, thank God. The men rose and bowed and she curtsied. Ben, however, was looking at her with unmistakable disapproval and annoyance, while Thomas appeared to think she was out of her mind. Well, she had just as much right to be there as he did! More, since it was up to her to defend the precious ideals for which their brave countrymen were fighting!

Captain Bordon was graciously thanking "the charming Miss Martin" for gracing them with her presence. She responded perfunctorily, and then directed another defiant look at Tavington. He raised his eyebrows quizzically, and again, gave her that disdainful smile.

Tiffany was stung. "I am pleased to see you looking so happy and comfortable, Colonel Tavington," she said acidly, "unlike my poor brother locked away in his own cellar and all those wounded Patriot prisoners you had massacred this morning!"

Tavington raised his brows again. "I knew your Rebel fear mongers worked quickly," he drawled, "but up until now I had not realized _how_ quickly. I see that there are already fresh rumours about my brutality in circulation, in connection to a battle I fought only this morning."

Tiffany was thrown into confusion. What could he mean?

"My daughter is indeed misled," said Ben, giving her an icy, quelling look. "My eldest son _is _serving in the Continental army, but as we are uncertain of his present whereabouts I cannot imagine how she came to believe that he is locked up in the cellar–or for that matter, that the Patriot soldiers who _were_ taken prisoner this morning have been slaughtered."

Tiffany all but sputtered. It was _impossible_ that Tavington hadn't captured Gabriel or killed all the prisoners!

Bordon, with a pitying look at Tiffany, ended the strained silence that ensued by tactfully changing the topic of conversation, asking Ben for his opinions on Herodotus, a volume of whose _History_ lay on a nearby side table.

Tiffany, mind still reeling, sank into the only empty chair–which was beside Thomas instead of Tavington, unfortunately.

"You ninny! What do you think you're doing?" Thomas hissed furiously at her under cover of the ongoing discussion of Herodotus.

"I am defending the principles Gabriel is fighting for, not betraying them as you and Father are by fraternizing with the enemy!" she shot back in a lofty whisper.

"You're one to talk–parading in here tricked out like Aunt Charlotte in all her finery, and all but flaunting yourself at Colonel Tavington! What do you want him to think of you? You know his reputation! Although," he added grudgingly, "I'm beginning to think he and the other redcoats may not be as terrible as we've always heard. We can be thankful that all he's done is impose himself and his troops on us until they're fit to ride out again–I'd expected much worse from him. But we may yet feel his wrath if he finds out that Gabriel _is _among the wounded Patriot prisoners here, and that father knew this all along, _and_ that Gabriel was carrying secret dispatches. Did you never stop to think that you nearly gave everything away with your hen-witted accusations?"

Once again was Tiffany flummoxed. _Nothing _was going according to script in this stupid AU _Patriot_ universe!

Tiffany sulked in her corner as the evening wore on. It wasn't _fair_! Although she could detect a certain underlying tension, the atmosphere was nowhere near as strained and angsty as in her fic, with Virginia's family and servants burning with helpless resentment against the brutal occupiers. Of course _she_ was burning with resentment, but no one seemed to even notice or care–or if they _did _notice her, seemed to think her a presumptuous little fool. What a contrast with "Unvanquished Patriot Heart", where Virginia was front and centre and everyone took her completely seriously...all _too_ seriously, in Colonel Tavington's case. Yet there he sat, conversing on civil enough terms with her "father", giving no indication that he was even aware she existed. What was wrong with him!

"What is wrong with you!" came Thomas' angry whisper. "Why do you keep staring at the Colonel like a...a _scorned lover?_ Are you _trying_ to give him the wrong impression of you?"

"Instead of constantly criticizing me, _child_," Tiffany hissed back, "you should be thankful to still be alive! Do you know how close you came to getting killed this morning?"

"Do you know how close _you're_ coming to getting killed this _minute_?" he growled in reply.

Tiffany sniffed and turned away. He really _was_ a stupid boy! Then she brightened: the conversation had turned from ancient history to current events. This could be her chance to finally capture Tavington's attention!

Bordon was mentioning how the Lord General had planned a round of festivities for the gentry of South Carolina, and that he, Bordon, hoped they would have the pleasure of seeing Captain Martin in attendance.

Tiffany decided that was as good an opening as any. "Why cannot you English realize that we colonists can neither be bribed like naughty children or brought to heel by force?" she earnestly declaimed. "We are pursuing a precious dream of freedom and are fighting to defend our homes, families, and country. You can never, ever hope to defeat us!"

One of Tavington's officers cocked an eyebrow. "With all respect, Miss Martin," he said with an unmistakable American accent, "myself and most of the other men in the British Legion are also fighting to defend our homes, families, and country. America is our homeland, too."

("I also feel certain that Pat Ferguson, Charley O'Hara, and their compatriots would rejoice at being described as 'English'," Tavington muttered in an aside to Bordon)

"–And if you _are_ never, ever defeated, I daresay your victory will owe a great deal to the assistance of your French allies."

Tiffany did not deign to acknowledge him, the Tory traitor. She opened her mouth to continue with her speech, but at that moment Abigale appeared with a tea tray. Tiffany leapt to her feet, determined not to relinquish her place in the spotlight.

"Thank you, Abigale," she said grandly. "You may return to the kitchen now. I shall pour." She hastened across to the tea table, seized the pot, and bent forward to fill the first cup.

There was an assortment of gasps and snorts from the others in the room, while at the same instant Tiffany felt a cool draught on her bosom. She glanced down...and saw to her mortification that her somewhat ill-fitting bodice–Mrs. Martin had obviously been more generously endowed than she–had gaped as she leaned over, completely exposing her breasts. She straightened immediately, clutching her bodice to her chest.

"Virginia, go to your room _at once!_" commanded Ben in furious tones.

Tiffany fled, face aflame, only too happy to obey this time. But when she reached the top of the stairs, she crouched in the darkness there, unwilling to miss what transpired below.

"My daughter has not been herself since her brother went to war, nor has she ever fully recovered from the loss of her mother," she heard Ben grind out.

There were sympathetic murmurings, and then Tavington announced his attention of retiring, and stated that his troops would likely be ready to move out sometime the next day. The other officers could be heard to rise and move toward the door, bidding their host goodnight. Tiffany scrambled to her feet and retreated down the hall to Virginia's room, where the candle had nearly burned out. A minute or two later there was a rap at her door; she opened it warily to find Abigale standing on the other side.

"Your father wishes to speak with you before you retire, Miss Virginia," she said, her eyes downcast and her face unreadable.

Tiffany groaned inwardly. She had a feeling that this wasn't going to be one of the heartwarming father-to-daughter talks of "Unvanquished Patriot Heart". And sure enough, when Ben arrived shortly after, he was positively seething. He set his candle on the dresser, then stood and regarded her as if she were some monstrous changeling.

"What has come over you, girl?" he said harshly. "Your conduct this evening was beyond disgraceful! Are you at all aware that your foolish exhibition put your brother's life in danger, to say nothing of your own reputation? You do your poor mother no credit–she would have been shamed by your outspokenness, incivility, and impropriety, as am I."

"_I_ think she would have proud of me!" said Tiffany hotly. "She _was_ a famous actress and an artist's model before she got married, and always was an independent woman!"

Ben looked frankly incredulous, then his eyes narrowed. "I am beginning to think that there may be some truth to the excuse I put forward to the officers to account for your behaviour–the shock of recent events _must_ have caused your wits to wander. I can assure you that your mother never had any obligation or inclination to take up employment–most especially not in such unseemly professions–and was a model of propriety her whole life long!"

"If you receive an offer from young Henry Cleveland when next he calls," he continued grimly, "you had better accept. We can only hope he doesn't hear of the spectacle you made of yourself tonight. The sooner you are safely married, the better. It is to be regretted that Cleveland's military obligations will keep him away from home so often for as long as this war lasts–you clearly need a husband who will be on hand constantly to keep you in line."

Tiffany could scarcely believe her ears–could this be the enlightened Ben Martin of "Unvanquished Patriot Heart", an egalitarian like all Patriots, who, as everyone knew, rejected the backward patriarchal attitudes of their British oppressors and were way ahead of their times in their thinking?

Ben was still talking: "I suppose a respectable older woman could be found to act as your companion until Cleveland leaves the Continental Army whenever this war ends. It is a pity that your Aunt Charlotte would not be suitable–the fact that she is a Loyalist would doubtless set Cleveland against the idea. And then"–he hesitated a little–"while I mean no disrespect to your mother's sister, she is perhaps not..._sober_ enough for the task."

Tiffany found her tongue again. "Aunt Charlotte a _Tory_!" she burst out indignantly. "And how can you call her unsuitable when you have such strong feelings for her? I've seen the way you two look at each other!"

It was Ben's turn to be indignant. "Are you suggesting that I harbour an improper attachment to my _sister-by-marriage_!" he demanded in outraged tones. He shook his head disbelievingly. "I think it best that you retire now, before you become any more overwrought. And keep to your room until the British pull out tomorrow. I shall instruct Abigale to carry a tray up to you." With one last perturbed look, and another shake of his head, he left the room.

Tiffany felt like she was going to explode with frustration. She rushed across to the window, and drew in deep breaths of the cool night air. Then she caught sight of Tavington walking across the lawn toward another officer, hand raised in greeting. He would be leaving tomorrow! She was almost out of time! If she could somehow expose him as the depraved monster that she _knew_ him to be, that would show that stodgy old stick-in-the-mud Ben Martin what a mistake he'd made in all-but collaborating with the enemy!

She quickly undressed and slipped into the nightgown she found folded neatly under the pillow of "her" bed, and then–damned if she was going to obey Ben's orders!–crept cautiously out of the room, along the hall, and downstairs. She slipped outside and tiptoed through the shadows until she was stationed behind a large shrub a few yards away from Tavington and his companion.

"I received a letter from Father just before we rode out on this latest foray against the Rebels," the other officer, who seemed to belong to a different regiment, was saying, "but only had occasion to read it this past half hour. Forgive me if I have kept you from your well-earned rest, but I was certain you would wish to hear my news without further delay: Father has finally given his consent to the match!"

Tavington's face was transfigured, all trace of cynicism fled. "Thank God!" he said exultantly. "Your news has made me the happiest man alive!"

The other officer beamed. "I daresay Frances must be the happiest of women! Since an official engagement now exists, she thought it not improper to write you herself." He withdrew a sealed, folded letter from his pocket and smilingly handed it to Tavington. He then shook Tavington's hand, offered him hearty congratulations, and strode off toward the dying campfires. Tavington lingered, taking what appeared to be a portrait miniature from an inner pocket, and gazing on it raptly.

Tiffany was frozen in shock. It was impossible that Tavington could be in love with–_engaged_ to–some spoiled socialite back in England! The girl must be really rich, and he was only marrying her for her money–that had to be it, she told herself fiercely. But meanwhile, that stuck-up English chick was a whole ocean away from Tavington, and she, the beautiful, bewitchingly unaffected and unspoiled American girl Virginia Martin, was _here._ She was humiliated at all those men–especially that little nerd Thomas and the Tory dude, to say nothing of Ben–having seen her hooters like that, but the one good thing about it was that Tavington must surely have been really turned on by the sight, though she'd been too embarrassed at the time to look over and see his reaction.

His supposed happiness over the news of his engagement was undoubtedly just an act he was putting on so his fiancee's brother wouldn't realize he was just a heartless fortune-hunter–the _real_ reason for his excitement had to be his having seen a poor innocent colonial girl accidentally expose herself to him. By now he must be thoroughly bored with all the slutty camp followers he no doubt bedded on a daily basis (hell, he probably even had a couple of full-time mistresses like Major Ferguson). So if she were to "accidentally" encounter him as he made his way back to the house, he would certainly be in the mood to attempt to act out the disgusting fantasies about his host's pure young daughter that were undoubtedly racing through his mind at that very instant. Likely that picture he was staring at with such intensity was some piece of filthy pornographic artwork.

When he returned the miniature to his pocket and started off in the direction of the house, she slipped swiftly and silently back the way she had come, but halfway there she detoured over to a bench between two large lilacs, before which Tavington would have to pass.

She seated herself on the bench, and then, as his footsteps drew nigh, she began to weep softly and wring her hands. "Oh, Gabriel, my dear brother, _wherever_ can you be?" she soliloquized tragically. "Are you even still alive? And oh, mother dear, _why_ did you have to die?" She cast herself across the bench, shaking with sobs, and murmuring brokenly to herself.

After several minutes of this, she began to feel a distinct irritation beneath her feigned grief. Why didn't he make his move? She slowly sat back up, intending to react with a show of alarm upon opening her teary eyes and beholding him standing before her. But there was nothing artful about the gasp that escaped her lips and the start she gave when her eyes fluttered back open: there stood a steely-eyed Benjamin Martin!

"Father! What are you doing here?" she faltered.

"I might ask you the same question!" he said icily. "Imagine my surprise, after having instructed you not to quit your room, to be informed by Colonel Tavington that you were out on the grounds, behaving in a distraught manner!"

"How _dare_ he sneak right by and ignore me like that!" she burst out furiously, and then, realizing that she had spoken her thoughts out loud, clapped her hand over her mouth.

Ben stared. "Are you saying," he demanded fiercely, "that you came out here in the hopes of having a tryst with Colonel Tavington?"

"Of course not," snivelled Tiffany, beginning to cry in earnest now, though her tears were of anger and frustration. "I–I must have sleepwalked out here. I have no recollection of leaving the house. And," she added venomously, "I would not be at all surprised if Colonel Tavington took advantage of me while I was unconscious!"

"I see," said Ben in a flinty voice. "You actually have hopes of compromising the Colonel into marrying you!"

"Why would I want to marry the Butcher of the Carolinas? And why can't you see what a depraved monster he is?"

"You are in no position to accuse others of depravity, my girl!" he snarled. He seized her arm in a painful grip, pulled her roughly to her feet, and marched her back to the house. Tiffany began to fear that he intended to beat her. But after he had dragged her upstairs and flung her through her bedroom door, he restricted himself to informing her, in a low, wrathful voice, that since she could not be trusted to obey his instructions, he would have to keep her under lock and key. Before closing the door and turning the key in the lock, he told her that she would remain there until Henry called, most likely on the evening of the next day, whereupon he would expect her to receive Henry with all due propriety, and accept his probable offer of marriage.

Tiffany, enraged and rebellious, walked the floor most of the night. What if she was stuck here for good, and wound up having to marry Henry, who was without a doubt as domineering and chauvinistic and uptight as Ben and Thomas, rather than the perfect young man she had created in "Unvanquished Patriot Heart"?

As the eastern sky began to lighten, she decided that she wasn't going to stick around to be forced into marrying Henry. After dressing hastily, she stealthily climbed out her window and on to the balcony–how stupid of Ben not to think to lock the window, she thought scornfully–and with considerable difficulty, shinnied down one of the pillars. She then fled across the lawn and took to the road, heading down it for some distance before turning aside into the woods: she was going to hide out until she could figure out how to get back to her own time. She threw herself down on the bare ground beneath a hemlock, and, overcome with exhaustion, was soon fast asleep.

She was startled awake hours later by footsteps shuffling through the fallen needles. She sat up quickly, and turned to see none other than Ezekiel Rollins approaching. She shuddered, and reflected to herself that one of the few good things about this warped version of _The Patriot_ was that while Ben Martin would never form a militia, at least this meant the Martins wouldn't have to have anything to do with Rollins. Then she grew downright uneasy: why was he looking at her like that?

"Good day to you," she said coldly, and, rising to her feet, attempted to walk past him.

"Not so fast, my pretty," he leered. "Have you no other greeting for a brave Patriot?"

"I am Captain Martin's daughter," she replied sharply. "And I must be going–Father will be wondering where I am." Even as she spoke, she kicked herself mentally for letting him know that no one knew where she was.

"Oh, I know who you are, my fine Missy Martin," he responded with another leer. "A crony of mine happened to be amongst the prisoners taken in the battle yesterday. He made up his mind to escape, but decided to do a little spying first. He lurked around your daddy's house to see if he could learn anything of importance from the British officers quartered there. Says one thing he _did_ learn was that Captain Martin's pretty little golden-haired daughter was panting after that Butcher Tavington like a bitch in heat. Seems to me," he cackled, "you could bestow your favours on a Patriot."

"If you touch me, my father will kill you!" she said in rising panic.

"You'll have to be alive to tell him who it was insulted you! When he finds your pretty little ravished corpse–'course, it may not be so pretty when I'm through with it–I just may take that golden scalp of yours for a trophy–most likely he'll think it was one of those British bastards!"

Tiffany turned and fled in terror. But her long skirts hindered her progress; Rollins soon overtook her, and seizing her, cast her roughly to the ground. She shook with hysterical screams and began to scramble away frantically, when a shot rang out and Rollins fell dead.

She became aware of approaching hoofbeats, and looked up to see Colonel Tavington.

"You saved my life," she whimpered.

He dismounted and assisted her to her feet. "Are you much hurt?"

She ignored his query. "H-how did you happen to be in the right place at the right time?"

"When your poor father discovered your absence earlier this morning, he was fairly distracted. However, not wishing your shocking disappearance to become general knowledge, he quietly approached me and requested my assistance. He, myself, and a number of my most trusted men have been combing the countryside for you."

_Tavington_, generously lending his assistance to a search-and-rescue mission? Chivalrously coming to the aid of a damsel in distress? That was impossible! He had to have some sinister ulterior motive–and she was sure she could guess what it was, too.

"I am in your debt," she said in a sad but resigned voice, casting him a sidelong look up from under her lashes. "I suppose you will expect me to repay you in some way."

He ignored her words. "I am sure you will wish to return home with all speed, to recover from your ordeal and set your father's mind at ease. If I lift you on to my horse, will you be fit to ride?"

That could only be a double entendre!

"I will endure it if I must," she said, still more sadly and resignedly. "I am alone and helpless and completely at your mercy."

"I mean you no harm, Miss Martin," he told her stiffly and with a note of impatience. "Now let us get you on to that horse."

When he reached for her, she allowed herself to sag against him (taking special care to bring her breasts into contact with him, and to rub against his groin), as if in a swoon, trembling all the while.

"Forgive me, dear mother, for what I am about to be forced to do!" she murmured in as piteous a voice as she could manage.

Tavington immediately stepped back, until she was held at arm's length, then, when she automatically straightened up in her surprise, he let go of her.

"Suppose we call a halt to this charade once and for all, Miss Martin," he said coldly. "Out of consideration for your unfortunate father, I was prepared to play along with his face-saving pretense that you were deranged by grief, even after it became apparent that you were in reality a posturing hussy. But I no longer have the time or patience to spare for your foolish games. I may state plainly that I have no designs on your virtue, assuming it exists–artful, hypocritical females of questionable morals hold no attraction for me. I have encountered your sort before: self-righteous Rebel women who make veiled advances to me beneath a show of defiance or timorousness, and would doubtless cry rape were I to succumb to their wiles. Now, I shall return you forthwith to your father, whom I sincerely pity for having the charge of such a wayward and reckless daughter; you have kept me from my duties quite long enough."

How _dare_ he accuse her of being a wily slut when he was based on Banastre Tarleton, who had boasted that he had raped more women than any man in the British army!

"You lying bastard," Tiffany hissed, narrowing her eyes to slits. "You have a lot of nerve to call me a hypocrite, when you can say that all those Patriot women who I'm sure you really _did_ rape were asking for it! The _duties_ you're just dying to get back to are raping a bunch more innocent colonial women and murdering their husbands and children! You're just as bad as that monster lying there, and the only reason _you_ didn't rape and murder me was because you knew you couldn't get away with it, since my father knows you were searching for me."

"_You_ _know_ _damned_ _well_ _that_ _you_ _want_ _me_," she shrieked, working herself into a frenzy, "_but_ _you_ _can't_ _have_ _me!"_

She ripped her bodice and chemise open, then hoisted her skirts to her waist. "Remember this when you're fucking that rich English bitch of yours!" she cried tauntingly. "I bet she's cross-eyed and buck-toothed, and has a flat chest, a hunchback, and bow legs!"

She began to sing "The Star-Spangled Banner" at the top of her lungs, shaking her chest and gyrating her hips in time. She kicked her legs cancan-style, then pirouetted rapidly.

Dizzied, she slowed to a stop. As she'd spun, her surroundings had been reduced to a blur–which now resolved itself into the college auditorium! Before her stood not Tavington, but a gaping Phil! Beyond them, the audience resounded with hoots, jeers, boos and catcalls. She was back in her Mary Slocumb costume–but the spangled bodice was torn asunder like Virginia Martin's muslin, while the striped skirts were still hiked to her waist. She relinquished her grip on the fabric of her skirts, and crossed her arms protectively over her chest.

And then she caught sight of him–a short, stocky young man in a green uniform jacket, tight white breeches, and a black helmet, standing beyond Phil. His dark eyes sparkled with gleeful amusement, and he gave her a mischievous wink.

"Goddamn you, Banastre Tarleton!" she screeched, the sound system carrying her voice even above the cacophony of the audience. _You_ did this!"

"_He_ did it!" she repeated, turning to the audience, and pointing one hand in the direction of the red-haired apparition, but hastily clamping her arm back over her chest after a renewed uproar from the crowd. "This is all his fault! He made me warp into the universe of _The Patriot_, only a warped version, and I've just come back!"

"I don't care if you're a ghost," Tiffany howled, "I'm still going to kill you!" She whirled back toward Tarleton–but he was gone! "You can't hide from me!" she shrieked, rushing off the stage.

She came to an abrupt standstill in the wings, swinging her head about wildly as she fought to adjust her vision to the dim light. Spying a greenish shape off to one side, she lunged toward it with a cry of mingled rage and triumph. She clawed and pummelled the figure; it, momentarily thrown off balance by her assault, quickly straightened up, shook her off, and in an unexpectedly familiar voice, thundered: "What in the name of God has gotten into you! You've ruined the whole performance!"

It was the _director_ who she faced, his green pullover awry, the expression of enraged, frustrated consternation on his scratched and bleeding face a reflection of her own.

"_You_," he stormed, "_are_ _out of this play!"_

_

* * *

_

The next night, Monica waited eagerly in the wings, dressed in the hastily-repaired Mary Slocumb costume. Of course it was just awful the way the opening night performance had had to be called off like that, after that egotistical bitch Tiffany had totally screwed up. Some people thought she must have been stoned out of her mind, but Monica was sure that being up on stage in front of all those people had just gone completely to her head and made her decide to improvise on the script with some kind of experimental theatre stunt; she always _was_ a total showoff. Anyway, though, things had worked out for the best in the long run: _she_ should have been cast as Mary in the first place, and now was her chance to prove to the director how wrong he'd been to hand his little pet Tiffany the role. She was going to take the audience by storm!

Right on cue, she gathered up her skirts and swept onstage.

And in his lurking-place in the shadows offstage, the red-haired, green-jacketed phantom waited gleefully, ready to put in motion his own special unscripted stage directions...


	8. Mary Sue and the Wheel of Fortune

_Disclaimer: The makers of The Patriot own Tavington. I own the rest. _

Genre: comedy

This adventure finds our heroine the victim of a Series of Unfortunate Events. A comedy of errors, of manners, and of 18th century punishments...

**Episode Seven: Mary Sue and the Wheel of Fortune **

This was it. Kayla smirked, knowing that her plan was working perfectly. Tavington was on the way, galloping up to the deserted plantation house, and she was there waiting, heart fluttering, eyelashes batting, and bosom heaving rather majestically, pressed into cleavage by the merciless corset. _Well, sometimes a girl has to make sacrifices to get what she wants…_

Tavington saw her as he reined in, and gave her a sharp nod. Turning to his subordinates, he began barking orders. "Wilkins, I want the horses watered within half an hour! Bordon, get that map out! I want to see if we can make it back to camp before sunset!"

He looked again at Kayla, standing in the shadow of the porch, and approached her, his voice softened to a purr. "Good day to you, Madam. Is your husband at home?"

Kayla drew herself up to her full five-feet-eight, tossing her golden head just enough to catch the sunlight, and sighed dramatically, "He is away, fighting for his country. You find me all alone and completely unprotected." _There, that should do it,_ she thought, watching him surreptitiously, her azure eyes veiled by artfully lengthened lashes. She was somewhat surprised and thoroughly annoyed to see Bordon and Wilkins catch each other's eye and start snickering.

Tavington looked around at them and frowned. Immediately the two captains composed themselves and gazed back innocently at their commander. Tavington returned his attention to Kayla, who felt quite flustered, seeing the two men stifle guffaws the minute their colonel's back was turned. She scowled at them, and they grew red with suppressed laughter. Wilkins appeared in danger of falling from his horse.

Tavington ignored them, and spoke gently. "You need fear nothing from us, Madam. We shall be gone within the hour. We need only to water and rest our mounts, and then we shall be on our way."

_Oh, he is so sneaky,_ Kayla scoffed. _Trying to lull me into a false sense of security, and then he'll grab me and carry me off like he does all the others._ Tavington had killed more men and raped more women than any redcoat in America. He had boasted of it publicly. She was sure of her facts, for all the Patriot newspapers had quoted him, and his remarks had gone down in history as unquestionable truth. He was a real villain, but oh, so sexy! And now she would experience living history, as his latest—and most willing—victim. This was so much better than that lame 1900 House show.

She looked up pitifully, in the way she had practiced so often. "I am completely at your mercy," she declared, (Ah am _cohmpletely_ at yo' muhsy) and pressing her hand to her heart, walked in seeming dejection into the empty house. Once inside, she ran to the window, and peeked around the frame to see if he was following.

To her immeasurable disgust, he was not. He was dismounting and talking to some no-name officers. The men were laughing about something, and the Colonel looked annoyed. He went over to the well, and one of the soldiers passed him a dipper full of freshly-drawn water. He drank deeply, and then pulled out his handkerchief, wetted it, and wiped his face. Then, even more outrageously, he strolled over to the shade of some trees and sat down to rest!

Fuming, Kayla sat down herself, on the floor in front of the window, and watched him. Minutes ticked by. The horses were being led around and around, for no reason Kayla could imagine. Bordon joined Tavington, leaning on the tree while the two men talked as if Kayla were not in the house, ready and waiting. A soldier came by, and gave them mugs of tea. The two men kept on yakking and yakking as if they had something important to say. Kayla got madder and madder. _Hey, has Tav forgotten there's a helpless woman to abuse right under his nose?_

She had compared completely for this adventure. The pockets tied around her waist were packed carefully with things she could use: money, comb, tinder and flint, some jewelry, even small vials of aspirin and antibiotics in case of emergency. She had actually given this whole 18th century deal quite a lot of thought. Now Tavington had to do his thing, and they could get on with their romance, and so forth, and so forth. Kayla knew how pretty she was, and there was no reason in the world Tavington wouldn't want her. She could work her wiles on him and in a few days he'd be eating out of her hand, just like all the men she had ever known.

Sitting on the floor, she grew tired watching them, and dozed off in all the heat, leaning against the wall. She was startled to hear shouted orders, and the noise of men mounting up. She looked for Tavington, and to her horror, she saw he was already on horseback, preparing to lead his men away. He wasn't going to carry her off at all, the slacker! Her leg had gone to sleep, and she stumbled getting up. Running outside, she was too late to attract Tavington's attention with a pretended faint.

"Wait! Where are you going?" she wailed. Desperately, she racked her brains for Plan B.

_Aha!_ There was a covered baggage wagon, nearly ready to roll. The men around it were talking, and Kayla crept past the trees, and quickly climbed into it. It was full of barrels and crates, and she hid among them, trying vainly to find a comfortable position . _Take that, Tavington!_ she thought angrily. _You_ _can't get away from me so easily! _Within a few hours she would be discovered, and brought before him, no doubt suspected of spying. She shivered in anticipation.

_Ouch!_ The wagon jolted and a wooden box bumped her head, hard. The jolts continued, as the wagon rolled on over the rough dirt path. Kayla was bounced around mercilessly, and felt a little queasy. For what seemed hours, she crouched in the back of the wagon. The canvas overhead gave some shade, but it grew hotter and hotter, and Kayla was drenched in sweat, trying to prevent the boxes and barrels from crashing into her. She would be black and blue by the end of the trip, and she hoped the payoff would be worth it.

At last the ordeal was over. Faint shouts came from the front of the column, and the wagon slowed to a halt. There was talking around her, and then it was moving away. Kayla got ready slip out and find Tavington. She peeked out the back and it looked clear, so she slid down to make her escape.

She was brought to a shocking halt, dangling from the back, and there was a ripping sound. Her stupid petticoat was caught in the wheel! _Goddammit!_ Her toes did not quite reach the ground. She grabbed the back of the wagon and pushed furiously. There was a longer, more ominous tearing sound, and she was free, trailing a flounce of white muslin behind her like a flag of truce.

"Hey, you!" shouted a man's voice. Kayla did not stay to look behind, but panicked and made a run for it.

Alas, the horses had been there before her. She slipped in a stinking pile of manure and slammed, face down, in another.

"Here, who are you?" A strong hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Frightened and embarrassed, Kayla frantically ripped off the trailing piece of petticoat and used it to wipe her reeking face.

Two tall Green Dragoons loomed over her. They were grinning, and one still held her by her upper arm.

"Pretty thing, ain't you?" said one.

"Mighty pretty, 'cept for the horseshit," agreed his comrade.

More and more of the soldiers were crowding around, laughing and pointing. Kayla realized with horror that some of the horse droppings were in her golden hair. She scrubbed at herself furiously.

Another dragoon, even more enormous than his comrades, pushed his way toward them. "What's all this, then?" he bellowed. "Hello, love!" he beamed, seeing Kayla. "Got a mind to join the Dragoons?" He had huge shoulders, a shockingly scarred face, and a disarmingly childlike smile.

The man holding her arm sulked. "I saw her first, Sergeant."

The sergeant dismissed this remark with good-humoured contempt. "That's as may be. A sensible girl always chooses the sergeant." The other man dropped her hand with a muttered curse. The sergeant rested an immense, ham-sized paw on Kayla's shoulder possessively. She began to feel quite uneasy, but was saved as a short, black-browed officer pushed through the throng.

"Sergeant Davies! Who is that woman? The Colonel gave orders to leave that lot back at camp!"

The sergeant was deferentially polite to the officer, but did not take his admiring eyes from Kayla. "New recruit, sir. Seems she hid herself in the baggage wagon so's she could join us."

"Nonsense, sergeant! That's a lady, from her clothes! Madam," he said, staring at Kayla censoriously, "I must ask you to come with me. The Colonel will wish to question you."

Sergeant Davies sighed, and whispered in Kayla's ear. "Not meant to be, love. Too bad. You'd have been better off with me."

Sniffing haughtily, Kayla pushed her way through the dragoons and followed the glowering officer. They had stopped by a small farm and its log cabin. Tavington and Wilkins were talking to a ragged-looking man and his wife. The woman had no teeth. Kayla looked away in disgust. After a moment, Tavington caught sight of the officer approaching, and Kayla with him. He bade farewell to the poor folk, and they went back to their cabin, thanking him for something.

"Madam!" Tavington looked at Kayla again, and stopped. "You were at the last plantation! How came you here?" He glanced at the officer.

The man said, "Apparently, sir, she stowed away in the baggage wagon on purpose to accompany us." Wilkins snorted and rolled his eyes. Tavington's mouth tightened.

His eyes wandered over Kayla. Ordinarily she would have reveled in this, but now she was painfully aware of the stains, the bruises, the lamentable state of her hair, and the possible manure smudges on her face. This was all wrong.

"Well," Tavington asked impatiently. "What have you to say? Why on earth would you conceal yourself in our baggage wagon? If you needed to travel with us, you had only to say so!" He looked at her not with admiration, but with disapproval, and Kayla flushed.

"Perhaps I'm a spy!" she suggested, with an air of defiance. Wilkins grinned and shook his head. He looked around and saw Bordon; and then gestured for him to come closer. Bordon, Kayla saw, had an expression of gleeful anticipation as he hurried to get an earful.

"Oh, rubbish!" Tavington snapped impatiently. His face grew red, and he looked at her with—could it be _fear?_ "I know what you are." He sounded faintly horrified, and rushed on, "You're one of _them!_ One of those _women!_ Always chasing after me! Always trying to get me alone so you can accuse me of horrid crimes!" He took a step toward her, eyes huge and alarmed. "Well, it won't work! I don't care what lies those filthy rebel papers have printed about me!"

This wasn't working out at all well. Kayla tried her tender, wounded expression. She dropped her voice to a throaty murmur, meant for his ears alone. "It's true: I really do need to speak to you alone, but I have vital information. The outcome of the war could depend on it!" He narrowed his eyes in frank disbelief. She lowered her voice even more, and the shamelessly eavesdropping onlookers craned closer, literally breathing down her neck. She swatted at them, shouting, "Oh, stop it!" and a few stepped back, blushing.

"Not you, Bordon!" Tavington exclaimed, grabbing his captain by the sleeve. "I need a witness."

"My information is for your ears only," she protested.

"Too bad." Tavington looked down his nose at her. "Anything you have to say you may say in front of my second-in-command."

She glared at him, checkmated.

He smirked. "I thought so." Turning to the crowd of officers and men enjoying the show, he called, "Here, Willett! You're a family man. Take charge of this woman until we've returned to camp."

The horrified officer tried to escape. "Colonel, my wife will never forgive me if she finds out I've been riding around the country with a-a-a—" He took in Tavington's implacable expression, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. He threw Kayla a furious look.

_Oh, no,_ she groaned inwardly. _And he's not even cute. Medium height, brown hair and eyes, nothing special about him at all. A waste of my time._

"For heavens' sake, man!" Tavington looked beyond exasperated. "I'm not saying you must take the female with you on your horse. We can't have an unprotected woman wandering around the countryside to be the prey of any outlaw! Keep her in the wagon, since it was her idea in the first place. Assign two guards, and see that she goes nowhere but back to camp with us. We can sort her out there." He turned his back and walked away. Lieutenant Willett's shoulders sagged with relief.

He pulled himself together, and glared at Kayla. "You heard the Colonel, ma'am. Get back in the wagon. You! Flanders and Swann! Ride behind the wagon and see she stays in it."

Two Dragoons swept her up between them and began marching her back to the horrible wagon. "Wait!" she objected. "I need to— need to-" The officer stared at her, eyebrows raised. She felt herself growing red with embarrassment. "I need to relieve myself before I get in the wagon."

The officer snarled at the two Dragoons, "Let her take care of her business, but don't let her out of your sight! Or at least---be sure you can always see the top of her head."

Kayla exploded. "_Well!"_

_

* * *

_

All her protests, arguments, struggles, and pleas had come to nothing. Within ten minutes, Kayla was bundled back into the wagon, and was further pummeled by its bouncing cargo.

At length, she crawled forward to sit with the driver, a rugged and odiferous old-timer with a cheek full of a plug of chewing tobacco.

_Well, sitting with him on the wagon seat can't be as bad as being bashed by the cargo._

Carefully, she climbed out on to the wagon seat. "Do you mind---" she began, as the driver turned to spit.

Unfortunately, in her direction. A stinking, glutinous brown mass splattered squarely into her eye. "_Aaack!_"

Startled, the driver apologized. "Sorry, missy. Hyar, ye kin can use my kerchief to wipe yo'r purty eye." Reaching inside his filthy shirt, he withdrew a stiff, stained rag of great age. She fumbled for it, trying not to gag, and succeeded in wiping her eye, after a fashion.

When she could at last see again, she noticed that the driver was leering at her openly.

"Iffen I war ten yars younger, and a few shillin's richer, I'd dig deep in my purse fer ye," he grinned, showing a few rotting teeth. He patted her knee affectionately.

"That's—very nice—I guess." Kayla shrank back from the wagon seat. "I think I'll just lie down back there right now." She slunk quietly back into the wagon and decided a few bruises were not that bad. She peeked out from behind the canvas. Flanders and Swann, her personal guards, were staring right at her, alert as fox-hounds. She smiled weakly and gave them a little wave.

* * *

The men's conversation grew more animated. Apparently the camp was in sight. Kayla prepared to make her escape when the wagon stopped. She tore off the rest of the hanging flounce, so as not to trip again, and kilted her skirts up out of her way. She would make a run for cover, and then seek Tavington out when things had quieted down. And when she was cleaner. 

"Whoa!" called out the driver, and the wagon ground to a halt. Quick as a weasel, Kayla jumped from the wagon and darted away toward a thicket.

"Halt!" came a deep-throated shout, and she heard hoofbeats thundering after her. In a sprint, she might have made it with decent running shoes, but the ridiculous 18th century slippers slowed her down just enough that within five seconds she felt an inordinately strong forearm grabbing her around the waist and lifting her into the air. She thudded painfully down across the front of the saddle, her breasts mashed against the pommel. It _really_ hurt, and she could not help saying so. She kicked uselessly, and she heard some laughs and some admiring comments about her legs. The rider said nothing, just grunting as he hauled her further over the saddle. She abruptly stopped kicking, realizing that she was simply giving a bunch of guys a look up her dress.

There was a bustle among the men, and suddenly the raucous shriek of an outraged woman. "Frank Swann! _Who is that hussy?"_

Kayla could see nothing but the horse's side, the rider's booted leg, and some of the ground. By the sound of the woman's voice, she was approaching rapidly, and she was _not pleased._

Her guard, Trooper Swann, answered sheepishly, "Just a prisoner, Molly. She was trying to get away, but I caught her. Colonel's orders."

"I'll 'Colonel' you!" Rough hands grabbed her by the ankles and she was pulled back over the saddle, scraping herself on the leather. "You get away from my husband, you—you—_scarlet woman_!"

Kayla fell to the ground and found herself looking up at a hard-faced, broad-shouldered woman who could probably box welterweight. Rather than be her punching bag, she explained quickly. "I really am Colonel Tavington's prisoner! I'm not after your husband!"

A thudding right slammed into her jaw, and Kayla saw stars. Molly snarled, "What! You think you're too good for him?"

Kayla scrambled away, and was stopped by the soldiers pressing closer, hoping for an all-out catfight. She screamed. The woman had grabbed her by her hair, and was trying to claw at her. Kayla kicked back and stamped on her assailant's instep, just as her self-defense teacher had taught her to. The woman screeched and stumbled back. Kayla shook herself free, and tried to push through the soldiers. She was knocked down by a howling, furious woman jumping on her back. Dust filled her mouth, and it took her a minute to think straight.

Molly was pounding on her. "Trollop! Strumpet! Harlot! I'll spoil your hoity-toity face!" Men were shouting, making bets, and Trooper Swann was trying to pull his wife off Kayla.

"Now, now, Molly, my dear—" 

Kayla twisted underneath her and clouted the woman over the ear. Her clothes were torn, and her skirts were over her knees. The damned woman just wouldn't stop. She scrabbled at Kayla's gown and tore off an elbow ruffle. Kayla swayed and tried to get away again, but the soldiers shoved her back toward her attacker. Trooper Swann was trying to restrain his enraged wife, and she responded by kneeing him in the groin. He howled, clutching himself, and let go. While he was bent double, Molly launched herself at Kayla like a she-wolf, screaming like a banshee, teeth bared and ready to bite.

_"Stop this at once!"_

Magically, the men fell silent. Two came forward and caught the wild-eyed Molly, dragging her away from Kayla. Another trooper took Kayla by the wrist.

The soldiers parted like the Red Sea for a coldly angry Tavington, looking them all over like so much rubbish.

"What the devil is this riot?" He saw Kayla. _"You!"_

Molly Swann burst into tears, and struggled in her captors' arms. ""Twas her doing! That harlot was stealing my man! She needs a good flogging, the yellow-haired slut! She—" She saw Tavington's glacial eyes, and collapsed into noisy sobs. Tavington turned accusingly toward Kayla.

"It wasn't my fault!" she protested. "That crazy woman saw me with the guard _you_ said I needed, and she went off on me! I didn't do _anything!"_

Trooper Swann had managed to stand straight and put his arm protectively around his wife. "The prisoner was running away, Colonel, and I caught her. She was over my saddle, and Molly here thought the worst." He hovered placatingly over the tearful welterweight and cooed, "There, there, sweetheart! You know I'd never look at any girl but my sweet little Molly!"

_Eeeew,_ thought Kayla. Tavington must have thought the same, for he rolled his eyes and spoke harshly. "Nonetheless, Swann, I expect you to control your wife. And you—Mistress Swann, be mistress of your temper, or you will find the consequences not to your liking." She sniffed, big-eyed, and shuffled behind her husband. He raised his voice, staring down the soldiers and their women who had gathered there with them. "Do I make myself clear? I won't have this sort of brawling. We are here to make war on the rebels, not to stage prize-fights." He glared at the officers on the fringes of the crowd. They fidgeted nervously, taking in the silent reprimand. The men were called back to duty, and the crowd melted away.

_That's telling them! _Kayla thought. _He's quite the leader of men_. She was feeling rather approving until he turned to sneer at her.

"As for you—what the devil is your name, anyway? I don't tolerate troublemakers among the Dragoons. If you're here to follow the army and find a protector, that's all very well, but you'll do it discreetly, or I have you riding the whirligig before you can bat your eyes at me again!"

_Whirligig? What does that mean?_ Puzzled, Kayla told him, "Kayla. Kayla Branson." She tried a flirtatious smile, which faded when she saw he was not responding. Still, she had him to herself at last, and decided to make the most of it. "And I can't thank you enough for saving me from that awful woman. She's absolutely out of her mind." 

"You brought in on yourself by running."

She tossed her hair. A few dead leaves fluttered from it. The breeze blew one in her mouth, and she had to blow it back out again. That bit of business ruined her attempt at dignity as she declared, "It's the duty of every prisoner to try to escape."

"Would you have preferred us to have left you in the woods to starve or die of cold? Besides, you wouldn't have been a prisoner in the first place if you hadn't done something as hare-brained as stow away in the baggage wagon."

"I told you. I have information for your ears only."

Tavington sighed heavily, and gave her a level, disdainful look of incredulity.

Kayla shrugged. "All right, I had an idea. I could spy for you. Parties, balls, whatever—I could go and keep my eyes open and then report to you."

He was still looking at her. Abruptly he asked her, "Do you know where the Ghost is?"

Taken aback, she faltered, "Well, no—I guess he's in the swamp somewhere… I guess."

"How very useful." He growled, "Unless you know where the Ghost is, you have no information that I need." He started walking away. Kayla stared after him, dumbstruck.

"Wait!" she ran after him. "Aren't you going to lock me up?"

"No." He kept walking.

"I might be a dangerous prisoner!"

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am! I'm very dangerous, and I know loads of secret things. You should keep me under your personal surveillance." He was striding faster now, and she had to skip to keep up.

"No, I shouldn't. You're a very silly woman, and I don't have time to waste on you."

"But I'm your prisoner!"

Tavington stopped dead and whirled on her. "You're free! Go on, go where you like."

"Just like that?"

"Yes." He entered a tent, and dropped the flap emphatically between Kayla and himself.

Undaunted, Kayla pushed the flap aside and followed him. He drew a deep breath, but she cut him off. "But about the spy thing--no, really! It's a great idea. I'll dress up beautifully and no one will know who I am. I find out all sorts of things." She perched on a camp stool, and smiled smugly.

He gave her an odd smirk. "And you feel you are prepared to enter society?"

"You can teach me! I'm a quick study!"

He gave her another unbelieving stare. "Young woman, I am a colonel of dragoons. I am patrolling the Carolina backcountry. I am in the saddle nearly every day. I don't have the time or the inclination to undertake the tutelage of a silly young campfollower." He pulled off his jacket and went over to a basin to splash his face. Reaching for a towel, he continued, "It is my understanding that we have sources of intelligence—even at such places as--" he sneered contemptuously, "_balls and parties_. It's mostly rubbish, but we do have very loyal people, well-educated and committed, who already do the best they can for us. Some of them are undoubtedly women. So you offer nothing new, or even particularly useful. If you lived in the area, or were acquainted with the Ghost, I might consider your offer. But it's unlikely. You could as easily," he grunted, wiping himself off, and throwing the towel aside, "be an agent for the rebels, trying to pass false information." He cocked his head, considering her. "Though I think you are too silly even for that."

He stood up then, and slipped his shirt up over his head. His chest was lightly dusted with dark hair, which shaded to a line leading alluringly to his navel and parts south. It was a thing of beauty, and Kayla admired him frankly. He paused, and looked at her quizzically.

She came to herself with a start. "What _are_ you doing?"

He rolled his eyes yet again. "If you want to make yourself useful, you can mend this shirt."

_What? _Rather huffily, she declared, "I don't know how to sew."

He stopped and looked at her, genuinely confused. "You don't know how to sew?" he repeated in disbelief.

"No, I don't. I'm not very domestic. I never bothered to learn."

He regarded her with some gravity. "Just what _do_ you know how to do?"

_Hmmm_. That was a puzzler. _What do I know how to do? I know how to drive, jet-ski, use Word, Access, and Excel, burn discs, cook a microwave dinner…I'm a terrific shopper…_

She became distracted by his handsomely bare chest again, and he grimaced with annoyance. "Can you do laundry?"

_Hmmm…with a washer/dryer…I guess…"_No," she confessed.

"Can you cook?"

_Not over an open fire_… _I'm not a dorky Girl Scout_. _No microwaves here, I suppose._ She shrugged, "No."

"Can you care for the wounded?"

"Not if there's blood."

He snorted, and shook his head. "Can you do _anything_?"

"Of course I can!"

"Speak French, make lace, play the pianoforte?"

"What is this, a finishing school?"

"All right, then," he snapped. "Tell me _one thing_ you can do."

_Hmmm…one eighteenth century thing… hmmmm…hmmm…_

"Well?"

"I arrange flowers very artistically."

Tavington burst out laughing. "So you have neither the skills of a common woman, nor the education of a lady!"

Kayla was furious. "Now wait just a minute! You make it sound like I'm some illiterate know-nothing! And I bet you don't know any of those things either!"

He laughed again. "Of course not. I am a professional soldier. I know dozens of ways to kill people." He gave her a pointed look. She fidgeted uncomfortably, and he added, "Besides, it is _you_ who make yourself sound illiterate!"

She stamped her foot. "I'll have you know—I _can_ read and write—and I've studied Spanish—and I've had two years of algebra!"

_"Algebra?"_

"And geometry," she added, proudly.

"That must be the most ridiculous course of study that ever I've heard. Nobody uses algebra but artillerymen and professors of mathematics."

"I don't use algebra either. But I know it. And I can dance."

"Every savage can dance."

"Not like me. I've had years of ballet, and jazz and tap—never mind, you wouldn't understand." _Oops, I can't tell him about the belly-dance lessons either. I bet he'd like it, though. If only I had my music and my really neat costume…_

He was dangerously close to gaping at her like she was some nutcase. He opened his mouth to speak, but before she had a chance to hear his opinion of her, there was a voice from outside the tent.

"Excuse me, Colonel. The Lord General requires your presence."

Tavington brushed Kayla off, and answered. "Give his lordship my compliments and inform him that I shall be there instantly." He pulled a clean shirt out of a trunk and slipped it over his head.

_Bye-bye, chest,_ sighed Kayla. _It was nice seeing you._

Tavington threw on a fresh uniform jacket, and smoothed his hair. "Out," he commanded.

"What?"

"You heard me. Out of here. Find something to do. Find some man to look after you who's not particular and can do his own sewing."

"But what about _us_?"

He snapped. "There is no _us_. I don't want you hanging about in here. Go home. Go to Charlestown. Go to Bedlam, if they'll have you. But get out of my tent. And behave yourself. I'm warning you."

"Fine," she shouted. "Be like that!" She rushed out of the tent, and stumbled into the arms of a very young officer. He blushed and smiled, and looked down the front of her torn dress longer than strictly necessary. He was fairly cute, but Kayla was in no mood for him. "Excuse _me!_" she snarled, and stamped away.

* * *

A very unpleasant late afternoon followed. Kayla had to decide if she was going to cut her losses and open a time gate home, or wait another six hours and hope for better luck. Finally, she decided to give Tavington one more chance. 

Everyone was staring at her in her torn dress. The camp women whispered to each other, and turned up their noses. One woman even had the nerve to come over and offer to loan Kayla a needle and thread to fix her gown. Kayla ignored her at first.

_I suppose she means well…_

"Wait!" she called to the woman, as she walked away. "Look here—I have some money. I'll pay you to fix my dress. How much do you want?"

The woman, short, dark-haired, very thin, and with slight moustache shading her upper lip, looked interested. "Three shillin's. Do you have the other elbow ruffle? It don't do to look slatternly is _this_ camp. The Colonel reckons if camp women want to be makin' a spectacle of theyselves, they do it at his pleasure and on the whirligig before the whole regiment!"

_Whirligig?_ Kayla wondered. _That's the second time I've heard about that._ _What is it?_

She was distracted from her questions by their brief search. The missing ruffle, much trampled, was found, and Kayla went into the woman's tent to take off the gown. It was still hot in late afternoon, and hot in the tent, and Kayla enjoyed taking off the heavy, boned gown, and the heavy petticoat, and lounging around in shift, corset, and underpetticoat. The woman said little, concentrating on making tiny stitches. Kayla lay back on her cot and started to doze, when a deep voice startled her.

"Well, look what a purty little thing is already stretched out on the bed. She a new one of yours, Liddie?"

Kayla's eyes shot open. A hulking dragoon was grinning at her. Kayla felt surprisingly exposed, considering all the undergarments.

"She's right purty, Jock, but she ain't one of mine. Although," the dark-haired little woman said, eyeing Kayla judiciously, "I reckon she'd be a right good goer if she wanted to earn her keep." She turned to Kayla, and asked her frankly. "What do you say, dearie? Jock here always pays first, and he'll tell all his friends about you if you give satisfaction."

Jock had started removing his jacket, and Kayla squeaked, trying to get up off the cot, "Ahh—I don't think so. Is my dress finished? Because I've really got to go now."

The dragoon grinned wider and pushed her down. "Now don't be shy, missy. You and me are going to be good friends. Here, just to show my good faith." He pulled out some coins and plunked them right into her palm. "Can't say fairer than that." He leaned over her and began tugging at the frill of her shift. The dark-haired woman just kept on sewing calmly.

With a shriek, Kayla jumped up, scattering the coins over the ground. She ran out of the tent and fled blindly away, still screeching. The woman called after her, "Don't you want your gown, dearie?"

Kayla looked down, and realized that she was running through the camp in her underwear. A number of dragoons stopped to look at her, and comments and catcalls followed her all the way to the brush beyond the tents, where she crouched down and hid.

Peering though the leaves, she could see more of the camp as a whole. There were lines of white tents and an open square with a raised platform. There was a framework of some kind, where she supposed floggings took place. There was also a strange contraption that looked a little like a child's merry-go-round. A wheel was set parallel to the ground and someone sitting on it would spin around. _What's that? I've never heard of anything like it._

She saw Tavington coming back through the camp, talking with Bordon. Some men were laughing and they went up to Tavington and told him something they thought was really funny. Kayla cheeks burned. They were unquestionably talking about her running through the camp in her underwear. Tavington looked irritated, and said something sharp. The other soldiers nodded and walked away. Tavington went into his tent, and Kayla lost interest.

It was hideously boring. She would wait for dark, and then go see Tavington again. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger, and she was tired of watching bugs crawling up the trees.

Finally, she found a stream and dug in her pockets for her comb. Washing her face and arms and fixing her hair gave a semblance of normal routine. Night was falling, and soon she could seek out Tavington and deliver her ultimatum. Either he admitted his attraction, or she would leave him forever. _And I mean—forever_, she thought to herself, imagining the dramatic scene.

The camp was growing quieter, lit by the fires blossoming at intervals. She dared not risk going through the camp more than necessary, since her white undergarments would be glaringly visible. She crept around the perimeter of the camp, slinking from bush to tree to bush, until she was fairly close to Tavington's tent. Then, crouching, she broke silently from cover, and made her way, tent by tent, towards her goal.

Tavington's tent was dark. A guard stood on duty by the entrance. Luckily, these primitive eighteenth-century tents didn't even have floors, so all she had to do was creep around to the back, wriggle under the lifted side, and she was in.

_"Ow!" _she banged her head into something hard. She got to her feet, and heard Tavington's voice and a hissing, metallic sound.

"Who's there?"

_Ooops,_ she thought, _he sounds really mad. I guess I woke him up. Well, too bad._ "It's just me."

There was an exasperated exclamation. "Stay right where you are!" She could hear him stirring, and a few seconds later a candle was lit.

_"You!" _he snarled. "I knew it!" Kayla thought that even thought he seemed really irritated, he looked very nice. His beautiful hair was down, loose around his shoulders, just like the cover of a really good romance novel. He was dressed only in a long, roomy shirt, so she could see most of his legs and his strong-looking, well-shaped feet.

He really was mad at her, though. "You've done nothing but cause me trouble all day, and now you must disturb my rest as well!"

The guard's voice, uncertain, called, "Are you all right, Colonel?"

"Yes, damn you!" Tavington shouted back. To Kayla, he snarled, "This is insupportable!"

"I know," Kayla reassured him. "I feel just the same. I couldn't rest without seeing you either."

"You're damned lucky I didn't cut your throat, you little idiot!"

Kayla stared, and then saw the unsheathed knife by his cot. _Ick. Good thing I didn't try to wake him with a kiss. Paranoid much?"_

"What happened to your clothing? Why are you running around the camp half-naked? Think it will be good for business, eh?"

Kayla stamped her foot at him. "That is so unfair! I'll have you know I was running away from a man who was trying to take advantage of me."

"_After_ you removed your gown?" He sneered, and set the candle in a metal lantern. The light flickered, and she was able to see that she had bumped her head on a trunk coming in.

"It was being mended! Anyway, it's a long story, and I don't care anymore. I just needed to see you." With that, she launched herself onto him, and glued her lips to his. He had very nice lips and felt otherwise satisfactory, though he could use a really good deodorant, she decided. _Stupid primitive culture._

He started struggling, trying to pull her hands away. She redoubled her efforts, and he stumbled back onto his cot.

"Thanks," muttered Kayla, throwing herself on top of him and pinning him down.

With a mighty heave, he shoved her away. "What the _devil_ do you think you're doing, you awful woman?"

"Making love to you, dimwit!"

"And this from the woman who complained of a _man_ taking advantage of her!"

Kayla paused. He really was angry. _I should have let it build more slowly, _she admitted to herself_. Maybe he likes to take the lead._

Somewhat chastened, she tried to make him understand. "But I _love_ you!" she wailed.

Tavington stalked to the door of the tent and flung it open with a snap. "Trooper O'Neil!"

The guard stiffened to attention. "Sir!"

"Fetch Sergeant Davies. Tell him to bring a punishment detail to my quarters on the double."

"Sir!" The trooper set off into the night.

"You're not going to—whip me—are you?" she asked, trembling.

Tavington was red with rage. "Whip you! You infamous creature! How dare you suggest that I would strike a woman—even a strumpet like you!" He began hastily pulling on his breeches. "No, there is a better punishment for wanton females-—and perhaps one that will make you think again before offering your favours so shamelessly!"

* * *

And so, with the dawn, Kayla was dragged out of the tiny tent she had been tied up in for the night. A discreetly sympathetic Sergeant Davies led her out into the brightening day. The camp was already stirring and expectant, and as Sergeant Davies explained, was assembled to witness her punishment. 

"Now don't you worry, love. It don't hurt, but you'll feel mighty sick for awhile. When it's all over, I'll take you to Liddie Barnes' tent." He saw her start. "And no visitors, so don't you worry. Your clothes are there, and Liddie feels mighty sorry about the misunderstanding. You'll get some rest and something to eat, get dressed, and then find a new regiment, mebbe the 71st. And stick to sergeants," he advised with a wink. "Not that the Colonel ain't a fine man and a good officer—as officers go. But I've been with him a long time. He don't see the funny side of things, and he only fancies fine ladies." He took her by the arm, and whispered, "Just be brave for the next hour or so. 'Tis like that play with the old mad king in it, where the fellow in the stocks says, 'Fortune, smile once more, and turn thy wheel.'"

"Is that Shakespeare?" she quavered, glad to think about something other than the coming punishment, and deciding that his scarred face wasn't as ugly as she had thought at first.

Sergeant Davies gave a deep chuckle. "He don't belong only to the gentry, you know. That bit stuck with me when I heard it. Whatever happens, it can't last forever. You think on it."

Her heart pounding, she was led up to the little wooden platform she had seen before. Two of the troopers grabbed her up, and she was planted firmly on the little seat above a wheel. She gasped with protest as her legs were pulled apart and her knees strapped down to the framework. Her wrists were tied to a pair of uprights on either side of her. She felt horribly vulnerable, aware that in true eighteenth century style, there was nothing under her shift. _Stupid eighteenth century. No underpants, no knickers, no underdrawers. Now I know what really makes my time better than theirs. It all boils down to civilized lingerie._

There was some little ceremony involved. Tavington was there, dressed in full uniform and accompanied by his officers, whose expressions varied from amused to disapproving to distressed and compassionate. Kayla kept wondering what was going to happen. _Is this like the stocks or the pillory? Am I going to have to sit here all day? Will people throw things at me?_

Sergeant Davies got a nod from Tavington, and stood in front of the troops and their women. "By order of the Colonel: The conduct of females in the Legion shall not be contrary to good order and discipline!"

Tavington called out, "Seven minutes, Sergeant! That should be sufficient!"

He signaled the troopers who had tied her to the device, and one of them reached for a wooden upright on the framework. With a jolt, Kayla found herself spinning round and round. The trees, the tents, the soldiers rushed by. There was no noise from the crowd. Apparently, Tavington did not tolerate commentary. And in fact, the punishment was made worse by the utter silence. Everything rushed by again. It was almost fun, for a little while, until her underpetticoat flew up into her face, and Kayla was horribly aware that everyone could see her most intimate parts, naked and exposed. She screamed with embarrassment, but it didn't stop.

The wheel kept turning, faster and faster. She began to feel nauseated, and was for the first time glad she hadn't eaten in nearly a day. Her petticoat flapped up and down, as she whirled round and round, utterly helpless. She shut her eyes, and tried counting seconds.

_Only seven minutes. These are going to be the longest seven minutes of my life_. She clamped her jaw shut. She couldn't scream anymore, because she was moaning with terminal motion-sickness. 

Round and round. Incredibly fast. She kept her eyes pressed shut and tried to think about anything else. She thought about her own time, and the lack of institutionalized corporal punishment, and decided any further time-travelling would be confined to civilized eras. She concluded that good looks alone do not a romance make. She gagged, but nothing came up. _Oh good, dry heaves._

After a lifetime of whirling, there was a shout, and the wheel slowed, and bounced to a stop. To Kayla, however, the spinning went on and on. She felt herself being untied, and pulled to her feet. She immediately fell to the ground, completely unable to walk.

Sergeant Davies came up, and was standing by her, whispering, "Come on, love, try to get up, and we'll get you out of here. I can't help you unless the Colonel says so."

She tried to crawl, but couldn't get more than a few feet before the dry heaves hit her again. Far away she heard some murmuring. It sounded like an officer speaking low.

Quite distinctly, she heard a nearby woman mutter to another. "Nothing came up. She must have been starving, poor thing."

"And so pretty, too. "Tis all that lunatic Molly Swann's doing. She got the girl in trouble from the first and spoiled her clothes."

Another woman chimed in. "And she was just trying to protect herself when she ran away from that Liddie Barnes' tent. But will the officers listen?"

"And then—I heard that she was taken from the Colonel's tent at dead of night! Perhaps she tried to resist him and now this is her punishment."

"'Tis a wicked world, Sally."

Next, she heard Tavington's clear voice raised in command. "Get her out of here, Sergeant Davies!"

To her unutterable relief, she was swept up in a pair of mighty arms and carried off. The world was still spinning madly, and would continue to spin for another half-hour, but at least she was cured of Tavington, and was at last getting away. As she reckoned it, by nine o'clock the time gate could be opened again, and then it was back to a world that made sense.

Had she not been still ready to puke, she would have laughed. She had already had her revenge. She had contributed her share, rightly or wrongly, to Tavington's reputation as a sexual predator. He would still be known as the man who had boasted that "he had raped more women than any man in America."

_Serves him right, the stuck-up jerk, _she thought spitefully._ Only fancies fine ladies, indeed!_ "Fortune, smile once more, and turn thy wheel!"

* * *

**Notes:** Whirligig designs varied. Some medieval whirligigs were barred cages. The perpetrator was then thrust inside and spun until he/she threw up. However, a political cartoon from the 18th century—one in fact dealing with Banastre Tarleton and his lover, Mary Robinson—shows quite a different device: a simple seat on a pivot, with restraints to hold the arms stationary and spread the legs wide apart. This seems apropos to the type of crime the whirligig was used for—a loose woman, for the second type of whirligig would play up the excessive exposure of which the woman was found guilty. The illustration can be found in _The Green Dragoon_ by Robert D. Bass. 

Davies quotes Kent in _King Lear_, Act II, scene II. There is no reason he might not have seen a performance of the play, though it might have been a bowdlerized version in which Lear and Cordelia survive. The correct quote, though, is _"Fortune, good night. Smile once more; turn thy wheel!" _I didn't think Davies would memorize the semi-colon after only hearing it once.

And no, Trooper O'Neil didn't tell anyone what he knew about Kayla's visit to Tavington's tent. He had better sense than to blab about something only he could know, and which would have gotten him in incredible trouble with his Colonel.


	9. Mary Sue and the Art of War

Disclaimer: I own neither _The Patriot_ nor its highly suspect historical timeline.

_ And now, a dark tale of an attempt to change the past, and save someone Mary Sue admires from afar. Can the past be changed? Should it be? Note that for this story, I am placing the climactic events of the film in the autumn, as the film does. I really do know better._

**Episode 8: Mary Sue and the Art of War**

Tara gave the punching bag a last, powerful left. Wiping her hot face with a forearm, she headed for the showers, sure that she was ready at last. She had had plenty of time on this end of history to polish her scheme. History would be changed—by her. Gabriel would live, and that bastard Tavington would die an ugly, horrible death.

Ever since seeing the movie, she had had a new purpose in life. Endless monomaniacal planning, strenuous hours in the gym and the firing range; on horseback and in fencing club; reading books and learning lost arts had prepared her for this moment.

She had the security codes for her sister's lab. Tonight she would get in, taking with her some absolutely essential items, and then she would travel to November 27, 1780. That was the day Colonel Tavington had burned the defenseless town of Pembroke. She was taking some history books with her, out of curiosity. Would the books themselves change, when she was through? Or would she and everything else she brought along be protected from alterations in the fabric of time? Her sister and her friends from the research lab discussed it over and over. No one was really sure what would happen if history were changed—some weren't even convinced it _could_ be changed. They were wrong. Tara would show them.

Once in the lab, she found that the device was larger than she expected. Her sister had not described it in explicit detail, but Tara understood how to operate it. There was a sickening, shivering eternity of perfect darkness and cold, and then she was abruptly spat out onto a carpet of dead leaves in an autumnal, virgin forest.

Tara lay still for awhile, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the natural world. Birds fluttered away in alarm at her sudden appearance. The wind sighed in the trees, which swayed gently and rhythmically as they released their rust-red leaves in a desultory shower. She looked up at the sun, half hidden behind the boughs overhead. She was in a new world, indeed.

Slowly, she got to her feet. It even smelled different: the air rich with leaf mold and faint animal odors, and a dozen other scents for which she didn't even have names. She dropped her pack to the ground. It was loaded with rations, with tools, with books, and with money of the period. She covered it with brush and leaves, and marked the spot so she could find it again.

It was unfortunate that she couldn't bring a horse, she thought for the fiftieth time, but it didn't really matter. She would confiscate one from the enemy very soon. She pulled out her map and compass and studied them for awhile. She should be close to the town. It had been too risky to aim for the swamp. With changes in water level, she could have drowned before escaping the device's perimeter.

Making her way through the trees, she saw the little white-washed village, innocent and defenseless. She slung her modified Kentucky rifle over her shoulder, and set off on foot to the church.

No one was there. She should have realized that every one would be out about their business, or at home. She knocked on the door of the house nearest. A young servant answered and stared at Tara, astonished.

"The British are coming," Tara announced. The servant kept staring. Tara raised her voice. "Didn't you hear me? The British know that Pembroke has been helping the rebels. They're coming to burn the town."

Frightened, the servant called back into the house, "Mistress, there's a strange woman here who says the British are coming!"

An older woman bustled to the door and eyed Tara up and down disparagingly, "And who might you be?"

"A friend," Tara answered tersely. "I got word that Tavington knows who's been helping the militia, and they're going up the Santee, burning the houses. Pembroke is on the list. Either get ready for a fight, or get out."

The woman looked at her suspiciously. "And why would you know this? It sounds like a trick to me—to get us out of our homes and loot the place." The woman pushed the servant aside and slammed the door.

Exasperated, Tara kicked the door, and went to the next building, a blacksmith's shop. The smith was at work, but looked up and did a double take at Tara, her male clothing, and her weapons.

"Good day to you," Tara greeted him. "I've come from south of here. The British are on the way, and they're going to burn the town. They've heard that Pembroke's been helping the rebels and Butcher Tavington and the Green Dragoons are killing anyone in their path."

The smith growled, "I don't know what you're talking about, woman. There are no rebels here."

"I'm not making this up! You've got to trust me!"

The smith sneered and began hammering a plowshare. "You'd best get out of here before someone decides you're a spy, Missy. Seems to me you're trying to get me to admit I have dealings with rebels."

Another man, leading a horse, approached. "What's going on?" He turned to the smith. "Who is she, Zeb?"

"Some woman, all dressed up for fighting," laughed the smith. "Telling a tale about the British coming to Pembroke to burn us out." He laughed again, but he and other man exchanged meaning looks.

Tara had had it with these rubes. "They'll be here by the afternoon. If you don't listen up, you'll all be dead!"

She had trained to be alert, and so saw the quick shadow of movement to her left. She ducked and caught the hitherto unseen third man; pulling him past her, and shoving him toward the forge with her follow-through. He stumbled, and screamed with shock as the blaze scorched him.

"Back off!" Tara warned them. The men ignored her, and began reaching for their weapons. "I'm trying to help you, you idiots! Tavington and the Green Dragoons are coming, and if you don't get a move on, you'll all be dead before morning!"

The smith hefted his hammer, and the second man cocked his pistol. They weren't listening. Tara kicked the burnt man into the man with the pistol and ruined his aim. She darted through the smithy and escaped out the other side. Running to the church, she found the bell rope and gave it a yank.

There was a second's delay, and then the bell pealed out. People came out of their homes, gossiping, looking around wonderingly. The smith and the horseman ran out of the smithy and saw Tara.

She shouted, "The British are coming! The British are coming! They are going to burn the town. Either get ready for them or run for your lives. They're not going to spare anybody!"

The smith bellowed, gesturing with his hammer, "I think she's a spy! She attacked Dick Tarrant and she's trying to create a panic!"

The older woman Tara had spoken to before, shrilled out, "I'll wager she's in league with outlaws. They're probably waiting in the woods right now!"

The crowd was gathering, increasingly hostile and raucous. It was time to quiet them down, and get them to listen. Tara pulled a pistol and fired into the air.

Immediately, half a dozen firearms were drawn and aiming at her. A few fired instantly. Wood splintered behind her, and Tara ran, cursing small-town xenophobia.

She headed into the woods, followed by the baying shouts of the men hunting her. She zipped around trees, running lightly, leaving little trace. Making a half circle around the town, she evaded pursuit, and finally found some rising ground, and a big, climbable tree with a good view of the town from a lower branch. She perched there, shrouded by the thinning foliage, and carefully reloaded her pistol.

"That went well." She had not expected the townspeople to be so paranoid and unreasonable. There was nothing unbelievable about her story. They must have been prejudiced against her because of her appearance. Wait—that didn't make sense. Patriotic Americans were certain to be more open-minded and tolerant than a bunch of la-di-da stick-up-their–butts Englishmen. She just couldn't figure out what had gone wrong.

She sat there a while, watching the town, and the clear sky began to cloud over somewhat. She could hear faint yells on the other side of town from the men still chasing after her. She grinned. When the British showed up, they'd see she was right, and then she'd rally the town and fight the redcoats. If they could just hold out long enough, the Patriot militia would arrive in time and finish Tavington and his scum off for good.

She had a view of the road as well. Within less than half an hour, she could see the cloud of dust that heralded the enemy. She organized her weapons. The Kentucky rifle with telescopic sight. Slow as it was to reload, its long range would allow her to get off at least four rounds before the English were on her. Two pairs of pistols. A saber, and a double edged dagger. A set of throwing knives. With any luck at all, she should be able to take out at least six to eight of the bastards herself. They could inflict enough damage that the redcoats would run like rabbits.

First of all, and most important, was to kill Tavington himself. That was the purpose of the anachronistic telescopic sight. If she could just get Tavington, that was half the battle. He could never order Pembroke burned, never kill Gabriel. She sighed, and imagined the handsome Patriot's gratitude to her for saving them all. And she would have changed history.

Tara readied herself. With its rifling and long barrel, the weapon was accurate at great distances. Much would depend on her skill, and quite a bit on the steadiness of the wind. She would fire her four shots from here, and then run back to the town and join the Patriots there, once they saw she had been right.

She took aim, resting the rifle barrel on a convenient branch. The dragoons were coming into focus. She couldn't yet make out faces, but she decided to go ahead. Heart pounding with excitement, she slowly squeezed the trigger.

The rifle slammed into her shoulder with a roar. Frantically steadying the weapon, she looked again through the sight. Two seconds later, a dragoon toppled from his trotting horse. The men around him paused. Then they must have heard the shot, for heads swiveled in her direction. Some men were down, looking at the dead man. A man in front was looking around him with a telescope. _Tavington!_

Eagerly, she began reloading the rifle—an awkward business, seated on the huge tree branch. This was better than Playstation! She patched the ball and rammed it. She placed Tavington in her crosshairs. Powder, flint, trigger….and the rifle roared again. Her shoulder would be bruised today, but she was used to it, and it was worth it.

_"Son of a bitch!"_ She had just missed Tavington, and hit some other redcoat sitting on horseback next to him. He flew backwards off his horse and landed comically, in a splay of limp arms and legs. Tara felt a voluptuous excitement fill her. God, this was thrilling!

The little red figures were leading their horses into the shelter of the woods. _Damn!_ There was a column of infantry with them, too. They were being diverted through the woods, too, obviously making their way to her position. There was no time to lose. She loaded the long rifle again. It took nearly a minute, and she feared there would be no more targets by the time she finished, but the telescopic sight did its work. Through the sparse autumn leaves, she could see the bright red uniforms. She looked for the horsemen, and tried to find Tavington. No—no—no—_yes! _He was leading his band of murdering English, moving as fast as possible through the trees. She took careful aim, and squeezed off another round, ignoring the pain in her left shoulder. A sudden gust of wind whipped past her. _No!_

_That bastard must lead a charmed life!_ The wind had nudged the perfectly aimed bullet aside, and it buried itself in the face of a rider near him. He glanced over to the dying man, and now he was close enough for Tara to really see his expression. He looked mad as hell.

Fumbling in her excitement, she loaded another round. This would have to be the last, for she could hear the hoofbeats now, and the shouts of the English soldiers in the woods. _Wait—were those English?_

The men from Pembroke who had been chasing her suddenly appeared from the village side of the woods, at the bend of the road into town. They must have heard the shots, and were standing there stupidly looking around. _Dumbasses._ The redcoats saw them and emerged from the woods with ominous discipline.

She was here to help them out. Tavington was out of sight among the trees. Instead, she took aim at an infantry officer and fired. He fell bonelessly, but his men kept coming. The redcoats would naturally assume that these were the men who had shot at them. Tara swore again. She certainly hadn't intended for this to happen.

A couple of the civilians started running back into town, the cowards. Most of the men had muskets, though-- clearly visible to her, and also probably visible to the redcoats. There was another bellow, and then a huge puff of smoke from the English line, followed a split-second later by the roar of a volley.

The gawking civilians were mowed down. One remained standing, and clutched his reddening shoulder. The two or three other survivors fled.

This was just not working out well at all. The dragoons were coming through now, and heading to the road at the trot. They would be occupying the town in less than ten minutes. She herself was no longer safe in her sniper's perch. She slung her rifle over her shoulder, and slid down the trunk, making her way through the underbrush in a wide arc around the town. She could come up on the north side, close to where she had emerged from the time portal. The cover was good there, too, and wouldn't be overrun by Tavington's men.

They must be moving into town. There were a few scattered shots. If they didn't put up more of a fight, they were doomed. Tara needed to cross the road, and saw a wagon approaching in the middle distance. _Well, what do you know? It's the Howards!_ She considered stepping out and warning the family, but that would put her in danger of exposure to the British, and it was hardly what she was here for, anyway. That wimpy Anne was not nearly good enough for Gabriel. A real woman would be fighting by his side instead of mouthing off in church without risking anything herself. Tara slid back down among the leaves and watched the wagon pass. In a moment, a tall dragoon approached them. Further on, she could see the townspeople being herded into the church.

Well, too bad. _They should have listened to me. There's not much I can do now. _She headed north, hoping to intersect with Martin's band before they reached Pembroke. She resigned herself to a long walk. After about a mile, she turned back and saw a column of dark smoke rising behind her.

* * *

The meeting with Ben Martin and his Patriot militia did not go as planned either. 

It began well enough. Tara congratulated herself on tracking them down within a fairly short time. They accepted her story that she had seen Green Dragoons heading in the direction of Pembroke. Martin even gave her a spare horse by way of thanks. But no one seemed terribly interested in her. In fact, they seemed upset about something.

Then she remembered about the one guy who had killed himself. Right. That was pretty sad, but she still thought they would be more impressed. One of the men was curious about the sight on her rifle, but Gabriel seemed preoccupied and anxious to get to Pembroke, and Ben Martin was too busy. The French officer was pretty cute, and cleaner than the rest, but he only raised his eyebrows at the sight of her and looked like he was about to---laugh. Snotty Frog.

And then they didn't want her riding with them. Oh, Martin was polite enough about it, but he made it pretty clear that she wasn't welcome.

"We can't look after women. We're on the move and it would be too dangerous for you. Go on home."

Tara snorted. "I can take care of myself. I'm here to help you fight the British."

Martin said patiently. "We don't need your help. These men here are all friends of mine—men I know well. I don't even know your name, and we just can't risk it. Goodbye. Thank you for your information." He took off at a gallop on the road to Pembroke, and Gabriel and the others rode with him without even a backward glance, except for two of the guys who glanced back at her and guffawed to each other.

Insulted, Tara decided to follow them at a distance. Yes, that was the best thing. She'd track them back to Pembroke, and when Gabriel went after Tavington out of revenge, she'd be there to look after him. He'd be glad of her help then. After Tavington was dead, she could comfort him, and he'd forget about Anne, and it would all be cool.

It was harder going that she anticipated. The horse they had given her was not the greatest, and already pretty tired out. She had to kick it constantly to keep it from dropping into a weary walk. After awhile they were so far ahead of her that she decided to cut across country and meet Gabriel south of Pembroke, so save time and the horse.

It was a long ride. She had to stop a few times, when the horse seemed about to give out altogether. She found a position near the road, and ate some rations she'd brought along. It was taking the guys at lot longer in Pembroke than she had expected. _I guess they felt they had to bury everybody, and that would probably take awhile._

The shadows were lengthening, and finally Tara decided to find the British. She knew Gabriel was coming after them, so why not be ready and in position to save the day?

There they were, halted and resting by the the river. Tavington was accompanied by a small patrol, and the rest of the men had been sent on, for whatever reason. She was able to creep quite close. Briefly, she considered finding a good sniper's nest, and picking off Tavington right away. There were problems with that, though. The rest of them would come after her, and her chances of getting away from them in time to open a portal and escape were not good. Besides, where was the fun in that? The whole point was to see the results of her efforts and to receive Gabriel's gratitude. It was best to wait for Gabriel and his men. She would tell them about the British, shoot Tavington, and they could kill the rest of the British. And Gabriel would be safe.

* * *

She heard them before she saw them. 

Gabriel and the rest of the Patriots were riding hell for leather, not caring what kind of trouble they would meet. She threw herself on her horse and galloped up beside him, shouting, "I've seen the British! They're dismounted by the river. Let me get in and shoot Tavington and the rest will be cake!"

Gabriel was galloping past, and she thought he hadn't heard, until he snarled, "Tavington's mine!" Then he was past, and rest of them as well. He was riding to his doom.

She rode after them and decided the best she could do would be sniping from behind. Taking up a position, she began firing into the British, taking down as many as she could before the patriot band would reach them. Once again Tavington eluded her bullets, moving too fast for her. She saw him kill the minister and then nearly get Gabriel, before he was brought down by the musket. He fell into the grass and lay still.

Oh, no! 

She had seen this a thousand times. Tavington was lying there, playing dead, and Gabriel was moving toward him. She screamed out, "Stay back," but he must not have heard her. She hefted her rifle and aimed carefully. If Gabriel would just wait a second, she could blow Tavington's pretty head apart. She pulled the trigger.

"No!" she cried. Gabriel lunged toward Tavington, knife in hand, and Tara's bullet slammed into his back. He stood motionless for a long second, and then crumpled lifeless to the ground. Tara ran to him.

That wasn't supposed to happen. Gabriel was quite dead, a bloody hole in his back . Tavington had turned onto his side, obviously in considerable pain, and saw Tara, rifle in hand, running toward him.

He looked very surprised and pleased. The conceited pig must have thought she had shot Gabriel to save him! He looked like he was about to thank her, when Tara ran up and kicked him in the ribs.

"You son of bitch! Why can't you just die?" She kicked him again, and he groaned as he clutched his wound. Tara grabbed his hair and screamed, "I've been trying to kill you all day, and something always goes wrong! Do you know how sick I am of you?" She kicked him again, not quite hitting him between the legs, and knocked his sword out of his hand.

He was hurt, but not helpless. He had been briefly overcome with pain and astonishment, but finally realized his danger. He lashed out with his leg and tripped her. She fell on top of him, dropping her knife, and he gasped with the pain. Immediately, she pulled a pistol and pressed it to his temple.

"Don't move, or I'll blow your head off."

He was quite still, watching her, his face tense with confusion and the hurt of his wound. He tried to speak.

"Who are—"

"Shut up!" she snarled. "Just shut up! You've ruined my plans, you murderer."

A faint grimace of a smile touched his lips. "It wasn't I who shot the rebel. It is you to whom I am obliged for my life."

"Not for long!" She reached into a deep pocket and pulled out the handcuffs she had brought. "Hands behind you." She neatly snapped them over his wrists, so he lay uncomfortably on his wounded side.

She kicked him again, and he curled up with a moan. "Not so tough, are you, after all? Wait until Martin gets here. You know what he did at Fort Wilderness in the last war. He'll carve out your eyes and scalp you before he lets you die."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Have I personally offended you in some way? Have I attacked your family?"

"None of your business."

"No, I'm quite sure I haven't seen you before. Did you lose a sweetheart? Is that it?"

"Shut up! And for your information, you may not have seen me, but I've seen you. I nearly got you earlier today at Pembroke."

He looked at her silently, with an odd expression in his bright eyes. "You were the marksman. I wondered. You killed some good men."

"I killed murdering redcoats. It's not like killing real people."

"Ah."

"What does that mean?" He was silent, watching her. She kicked his knee warningly. "Tell me!"

"I simply was going to observe that you seem to believe that persons agreeing with your peculiar views are real people, but people with differing opinions are not human beings."

"Yes! That's right!"

His eyes narrowed. "You're not from Pembroke yourself, are you? The people didn't know about you."

"Yes, they did! I tried to warn them that you were coming to burn the town, but they wouldn't listen!"

He actually smiled. "Do you know why I killed them? Because of the marksman. I was quite furious over my men being murdered in that cowardly way. If you hadn't interfered, I would have burned the town, certainly, but probably not killed the people, other than hanging one or two as an example. As it is, they're all dead, and it was entirely your doing."

She drew another pistol then, aimed it just to his left and fired. The bullet whizzed by his ear, and he shuddered involuntarily. "Liar! You were going to kill them anyway! I know all about you! Everyone knows how you burned Pembroke. I went back there to save them!"

He gave her a very cautious, puzzled look. "You couldn't possibly know that. It only happened today." He grew more uneasy.

_He thinks I'm crazy. Fine. That will worry him even more._ The flies were buzzing around them, attracted by the blood. A few landed on Gabriel and Tara shooed them away. Her eyes burned. 

"Were you in love with him?" Tavington asked idly.

"Shut up or I'll kill you."

"I've been wondering why you haven't killed me already."

"Ben Martin will be along soon. He deserves the chance to kill you himself. He's going to kill you anyway, sooner or later."

"Were _I_ he, I would be quite upset with you." Tavington moved on the ground, and carefully sat up, wincing. "I wonder what he'll say when I tell him you shot his son. Not intentionally, of course, but he's exceedingly dead all the same."

"It was an accident! I told him not to move!"

"And naturally he would obey the orders of some mannishly dressed lunatic woman. I certainly would have ignored you." His lips twitched. "Yes, I think your lifespan will not be much longer than mine when Martin arrives." He looked past her, up the hill. "And here he comes."

Tara turned. In the distance, a lone horseman approached at the gallop. It was definitely Ben Martin, and she knew enough about him to acknowledge that he would lose it when he found out about Gabriel. She could shoot Tavington now, but that would probably make Martin angrier. He would want to know all about the fight, and he might not be satisfied with her answers. If Tavington told him what had happened, Martin probably would try to kill her, and then she would have to act in self-defense.

Well, it was very unfortunate, but this was a chance to see if she could change history in any appreciable degree. Martin was about a hundred yards away. She picked up her rifle, and knelt on the ground, bracing her elbow against her knee. Carefully, she aimed down the telescopic sight. He was right in the crosshairs.

With a roar, the rifle crashed back again into her shoulder. She looked up, and saw Martin falling from his horse. He didn't move.

"Oh, well done!" cried Tavington with enthusiasm. "Well done indeed! If you weren't talking about killing me, I'd ask you to unshackle my hands to I could have a look at that sight of yours. Quite remarkable. Is that a telescope?"

She scowled at him and threw the rifle down. He objected, genuinely interested in the weapon. "That's no way to treat such a splendid firearm. Did you devise that yourself? I apologize for any remarks about your intelligence. That's quite an innovation."

"Shut up!" She was disoriented and sick with anger and disappointment. The only man who was impressed with her was the scum of the earth she had come to kill. Gabriel and his father were dead. The only consolation had been in proving her sister and her geek friends wrong. But would she be able to tell them? Martin would not be at Cowpens now, and the battle might go very differently.

Tavington watched her carefully. "It seems to me," he began softly, "that you have rather burnt your bridges with your rebel friends. If you will undo these most interesting hand shackles, I give you my word that I will not harm you or allow any one else to do so. You are obviously an inventor of some genius, or you know the inventor himself. Allowances must always be made for the eccentricities of such individuals. The sight alone would make your fortune."

"No. I'm still going to kill you," she growled, quite depressed.

"And what good will that do? General O'Hara is headed this way, and should be here momentarily. He will hang you, and your devices will be lost to the world. Whereas I can offer you protection. After all, you did save my life."

"O'Hara!" she sneered. "That pansy! I'm not afraid of him. Mr. Lacy-pants!"

Tavington gave her a hard look. "I believe we must not be speaking of the same General O'Hara. He is not a "pansy," as you put it, but a quite creditable soldier." He cocked his head to one side. "What are pants?"

She kicked his knee again. "What you're wearing."

"Oh. Breeches." He watched her. Tara was thinking rapidly. She had changed history all right. Changed it really and truly. What if the Patriots lost at Cowpens because Martin wasn't there? Tara's sister and her friends had discussed time paradoxes at length, and there were a lot of different theories about would happen to someone who had changed history. Some thought that if the person didn't exist in the future because of the changes, they would simply disappear. Tara's sister thought differently. She thought that if the person who had changed history remained in the same timeline, it would act as a relativistic bubble to protect him or her, but if that person ever returned to the future, they would cease to exist—and would never have existed at all.

"Oh, _shit!"_ Tavington looked a little shocked at her language. "Don't look at me like that! You don't know the trouble I'm in, you jerk. This is all your fault. I'm going to have to stay in this stupid, primitive place."

"Primitive?" Tavington was intensely curious.

Tara whirled on him. "Yes, primitive, bozo! I came back in time to help Gabriel Martin and his Patriots, but it hasn't worked out at all. And now I've changed history and I'm stuck here, because if I open a time portal now, I probably won't exist in the new future."

Tavington stared at her, looking dazed.

She stood over him, shouting. "Primitive, barbaric! No concept of decent sanitation, and medicine and dentistry on the level of village shamans. Medicine men, shaking bone rattles! You're a bunch of savages!" She jumped up and down, miming a tribal dance; and then threw herself down on the ground, her head in her hands.

Tavington said nothing at all for awhile. There was some noise among the trees, and the rustle of distant, marching feet.

"Well, I think you should consider my offer, young woman. From the future? Did you bring some other items with you?"

She sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I brought a bunch of things."

"And you know what's going to happen?"

"Well, some things I do. Some things will have changed."

"Still." He tried again. "And there must be some other weapons in the future that you know about…"

"Sure. Breechloading repeaters, revolvers, poison gas, modern grenades, machine guns…"

"Machine guns? What do they do?"  
"Fire about a zillion rounds a minute."

"Ah."

A column of infantry emerged from the woods, led by a man on horseback who looked like O'Hara, but with a much scarier expression.

Tavington looked up at her. "I give you my word. No retaliation. I'll protect you, and you'll share your knowledge with me."

"Partners?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Undo my hands!"

Tara looked at the carnage around her. She looked at the advancing British infantry. She looked at Tavington. Bastard. He was acting like he'd won the lottery. Who would have thought that he would be the only person in this rotten place to show her any interest or have the imagination to believe her?

She unlocked the cuffs, hissing at him. "Fifty-fifty. If you try to trick me, you'll be sorry."

He grinned. He was still a bastard, but he was a good-looking bastard. "Likewise. Fifty-fifty." He grabbed her wrist hard, and hissed back, "But we'll have to find you some respectable clothing. And don't ever pull a pistol on me again."

He stood up, painfully, and wrapped a possessive arm around her. The unpleasant realization swept over Tara that only his word stood between her and hanging. And that eighteenth century women were not much more than chattels. _Oh, crap. Right. Fifty-fifty. Like that's going to happen. And there's no escape.  
_

Tavington gave an insouciant wave to O'Hara, and purred triumphantly in Tara's ear. "Once we get back to the fort, my dear, you must tell me all about _machine guns._"

Tara wondered just how much change the future could take. She figured she'd find out. The Continental Army at Cowpens was in for some surprises.


	10. The Door Into Time, part 1

Disclaimer: The makers of the film _The Patriot_ own Colonel Tavington. I own the rest.

Genre: romance/time travel

Diana Lindsey returns…or rather pulls Tavington out of one time and into another….

Episode 9: The Door Into Time

Part I

He didn't expect to suffer long. The agony was so terrible that he simply wanted it all to be over. Whatever thoughts, whatever regrets he might have had were already fading into darkness. He had not even time to wonder what might come next. Oblivion was at hand, and took him…

And one day, it spat him back into the world of the living.

He heard voices first, and smelled a sharp odour, not unlike strong spirits. A red light glowed through his closed eyelids. Opening his eyes was difficult: they seemed glued shut. His body ached, and he felt almost weightless, floating in an unknown place.

"Here, this might help," said a woman's soft voice, and his eyes were wiped with a warm, damp, cloth.

The light was painful at first, and then he saw her.

_"Diana!"_

She was the same, but not the same. Her hair was uncovered, and she was dressed very strangely. His first thought was the obvious one.

"Are we both dead?"

She gave a little sob of a laugh, and said, "No, Will, you're not dead and neither am I! You're alive and here with me."

An unfamiliar male voice growled, "Just barely, though. It wasn't easy putting him back together." A new face leaned over, a youngish man with cropped and wildly disordered dark hair, and heavy spectacles. "Not to mention the transfusions."

Tavington was still too weak and disoriented to register the unfamiliar word. He was too happy to see Diana again, even in her odd new guise: a long white cotton coat, buttoned up the front, and long breeches of light green showing beneath. The man was dressed in a similar style. Rolling his head a little, he took in the room, which was full of a large, unfamiliar objects that glowed with coloured light. Some made curious noises. Most unpleasantly, he appeared to be connected to some of them by clear tubing that at first he took for glass. It could not be, however, as it seemed _flexible._ He was comfortably warm, and dressed in a kind of thin cotton gown. He shut his eyes wearily, not ready to think about it all.

Diana's soft, comforting voice was in his ear. "Will, don't worry. I know this is terribly strange. But everything here is to help you get well. And you will get well. You're almost there now. I'm going to get you something to drink, and little by little I'll explain where you are and what all of this is."

He found the familiar scent of her comforting as well. He had had months to think about Diana, months in which he missed her more and more. She had left Charlestown under mysterious circumstance; but he had been given evidence that she was from some time in the distant future—in fact, nearly _three hundred years_ in the future. He had accepted the wonder of it, while bitterly regretting the lost opportunity to ask her what the coming years would hold for him.

_Did she know I would be wounded? Perhaps that is why she was so eager for me to leave the Army. But now I am safe!_

A door opened, and another woman called out, "I heard he's awake! How's your handsome stranger?"

Diana hushed her. "He's still very tired. I tell you more later." The door shut again, and Tavington heard muffled footsteps walking away.

There was a liquid sound of something being poured, and Diana said, "Will, we're going to adjust the bed, so you'll be sitting up a little. Don't be alarmed."

A whirring noise, and he was raised by the bed as if by invisible hands. There was a great deal here that he must take on trust, but he refused to show fear before Diana, and before the strange man with her. He opened his eyes again, and Diana was holding a glass full a liquid unfamiliar to him, something brightly coloured, with a pleasantly sharp, fruity smell.

"Orange juice," she explained. He had never heard of drinking the juice of oranges, but was too thirsty to quibble. He drank it down, and lay back again, feeling himself smile. She smiled back, gently. "You probably have a million questions."

* * *

If not a million, then certainly thousands. 

They were in the future, in Diana's time. Tavington was only a little dazed at the actual date, being somewhat prepared by the coin Diana had left him. Apparently, Diana had planned for some time to rescue him from the battlefield, for more time had passed here than the few months since he had last been in Charlestown. Diana told him to be patient, and that when he was more recovered from his wounds, she would tell him everything. In the meantime, he was to rest, to read if he liked, and when he grew stronger, to explore his new abode. He had thought his recovery miraculously quick, until it was explained to him that they had kept him in a coma for many weeks, to promote healing.

They showed him where they had put away his clothes, his sword, and his other personal possessions. They removed the disconcerting tubing from nose and groin. For his convalescence, they exchanged the flimsy gown for the curious garments they all wore: soft cotton made into long breeches, and a loose, buttonless tunic-like shirt that one slid over the head. He winced the first time he lifted his arms to put it on. There were comfortable cotton stockings as well, that conformed well to the feet. Most interesting were the boots he was given. The left and right boots were designed so, the area for the toes appearing quite different in each.

"An amazing innovation of the 19th century," Diana teased, as she showed him how to put them on. "You'll find the fit superior." Tavington had to agree. They were by far the most comfortable footwear he had ever possessed. Diana was looking at him admiringly. "It all looks good on you, Will."

At first, he wondered if everyone here was Diana's near relation. Everyone used Christian names. The brusque but obviously excellent physician, Mark, he had thought must be Diana's brother. It was not so, however, for he found that everyone introduced themselves by Christian name, and they called him "William" in their turn. A few impudent strangers tried "Bill," until Tavington's expression set them straight. Eventually, they all settled for "Will," which was extraordinarily familiar, but inevitable. And they wished him to address them familiarly, as well.

"We've known each other for a long time, Will," Diana explained. "And we're all part of the team. You might say we're closer than a lot of blood relatives. Anyway, it's customary here. Anything else would seem odd and hostile."

So Tavington endured the forced intimacy. There were only a few dozen people here, the "team" that Diana spoke of, and no one appeared to be a servant, so the equality of situation made it all a little more palatable. In fact, Diana told him the cleaning that was done, was done by them all, on a rotating basis, or all together, as a work group.

In due course, another physician came to help Mark: a woman. Tavington was startled to hear that Gretchen, who had dropped by briefly when he first awakened, was indeed a doctor of medicine. She was a pleasant, comfortable-looking woman, and had a competent air about her.

She admired his healed wounds. Tavington admired them too. There was pink, tender scar tissue, but not the ridged flesh he would have expected. Gretchen said briskly, "You're making a full recovery. Nice to know all the work paid off." She grinned at Diana. "I guess they built them tough in the way-back-when." And then, in a business-like, no-nonsense tone to Tavington: "You need some regular, gentle exercise, like swimming, and I'll expect to see you at 9 in the morning daily, but other than that—you can be on your own within the week."

"Is it usual for woman to be physicians?" Tavington asked, half concerned that he was being vulgarly curious.

"Not uncommon," Gretchen declared calmly, prodding him in extraordinary places. "Women do all sort of things that once only men did."

Tavington wondered why, but saved the question for Diana, when she returned with his dinner and hers on a tray. She was very stimulated by the subject, and talked at great length about the gradual evolution of women's roles, and about the First World War, which seemed to have been the great turning point in social relations. According to Diana, so many men were killed in that war (and the casualty figures were unbelievable, until Diana explained the circumstances and weapons that led to such carnage), that many women had no male relatives to protect them, and no hope of husbands to provide for them. Thus they found themselves, poor creatures, forced out of their homes and into every kind of work and profession: medicine (which did not seem so absurd to Tavington), the law (which seemed much odder), business (many women had good heads for business), government (he supposed there was no reason a woman could not be as good a clerk as a man), and higher education (he smirked at the thought of women dons at university). Diana was a historian, in fact, and had gone to university. She had obtained an actual degree. Tavington digested the idea cautiously, and had nearly accepted it, when she told him that women also served in the military.

At this last, Tavington stared at her in flat disbelief, until she brought him books about recent military history. It seemed shocking, pitiable, and cruel to Tavington, but it was certainly a fact. This modern world had turned its women into cogs in its machines as thoroughly as it had its men. He could see that Diana thought these were great advancements for womankind, and he understood that she was proud of being a scholar, but it seemed very bleak and sad to him that her life as a woman had been neglected until the two of them had met.

Very carefully, he expressed his concern that so many women seemed to be busying themselves with men's work, instead of marrying and bearing children. Back in the past, he had cherished a small hope that Diana might have been with child by him. That hope proved groundless, however. And Diana's reply to his remarks raised even more questions.

She said, a little sadly, "Will, there are fifteen billion people on the planet. Nobody needs more children. In fact, many governments pay a bonus to the childless, and to those who voluntarily have themselves sterilized. No," she smiled, seeing his horrified expression, "I haven't gone that far. But I was fitted with a contraceptive implant—a device inserted under my skin-- before I used a time gate. It's standard procedure, and for our own protection."

"This implant," he began, and pulling her close in a most particular way. "Where is it? Does it hurt you? Why did I not notice it?"

And that stimulated a very amusing search for the device, which was tiny, and hidden away, just under the skin behind her ear. She assured him it could be removed at any time, but asked him to wait until he had had time to adjust to his new home. Tavington assented to this reluctantly, but consoled himself with plans for practicing for the future.

The Aurora Project Research Laboratory was apparently a place where "scientists" and scholars worked and studied and performed experiments. It was a very large building, partly underground, far from a town, and full of more rooms of strange equipment. In the first day on his feet alone, Tavington explored the halls and unlocked rooms, and found windows, looking out upon a barren landscape. The windows did not open.

"No point," the doctor, Mark, informed him as he passed by. "You'd just be letting the heat and pollution in." Tavington was curious and uneasy at the use of such a Biblical word, and later asked Diana what Mark meant, when she joined him for further explorations in the afternoon.

She looked at him for a long moment, as she sometimes did, as if translating the meaning of his words. "Oh!" she answered, finally understanding. "Mark isn't talking about religious transgressions or ritual taboos. He means the air is very unclean—full of toxins—I mean--full of poisons released into the air by machinery. It's better to let the system clean and cool it before we breathe it."

"You never go out?" Tavington had lived much of his life in the out-of-doors, riding, hunting, shooting, involved in sport and getting constant exercise. He was not impressed with the artificially lit room full of heavy machines that Diana explained they used to "work out" with.

"It seems so very dull," he objected. Diana smiled, and took his hand, drawing him down another long grey hall, which had an unfamiliar odor.

Opening a heavy door, a huge indoor pool was revealed. It was designed for swimming, and Tavington found it an amazing sight.

"What is that smell?"

"Chlorine," she answered. "A chemical that keeps the water clean. It's important to rinse off after swimming, because it's a little harsh."

The swimming pool was most attractive, though the heavy smell of "chlorine" took some getting used to. After all, Gretchen had told him this was the best sort of exercise for his healing scar tissue.

"I'm surprised no one else is here."

"They're all busy, I suppose. And it's not a popular time of day." They walked around the pool, and Tavington saw the cleverness of it—part of the pool was deeper than the rest, and the water was circulated by pumps. He stooped to touch the water and found it pleasantly warm.

Diana was smiling at him. "Well, how about it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Let's go in. Just be careful about placing too much strain on yourself." She crossed the room to a wall of small metal doors, and opened one. "We have some gear you can use." She returned with a pile of white, fluffy towels, and a ridiculous scrap of cloth, bright red in color.

"What does one do with that?"

"Swim trunks. It's what you wear."

"Is it what _you_ wear?" Tavington asked, quite shocked.

"No, I wear a bit more. Here, I'll show you how to put this on."

Tavington was already stripping off his shirt. "I absolutely refuse to wear anything so silly—custom or not." He found a bench and removed his boots. "There's only one comfortable way to swim." The odd, long breeches were removed, and folded on a bench. He saw that Diana was looking at him wide-eyed. He smirked. "My dear, there's nothing here you have not seen before. Don't look so startled." Carefully he slid into the water, and stretched carefully but pleasurably, admiring the ripples of light on the ceiling, and the sensation of buoyancy.

Diana was gaping him, blushing. He supposed he was outraging some native custom, but he was enjoying himself too much to care. She took a deep breath and hastily discarded her own clothing: white "lab coat," soft-soled boots, and mannish shirt and "pants." She was once again the Diana he knew completely, and for the first time he felt truly happy in this strange place. She caught his eye, laughed at her own modesty, and slipped into the pool to join him. He caught her in his arms and pulled her to him, alone at last, and able to kiss her properly and lengthily. Little waves splashed with their movements, brushing deliciously over his skin. He released her, and then swam away, with an enigmatic smile. She laughed, and swam after him.

"But can you never go out?" he asked again after a little while, floating in the scrupulously clean water, and doing a lazy backstroke the length of the pool. Diana was beside him, looking like a lovely, wet sea nymph; her white skin showing pale blue under the water as she swam beside him. Her hair spread about her like floating seaweed, and his pulse raced, as he anticipated the end of his "gentle exercise," and what other exercise might follow.

She answered slowly. "We go out when we must. Sometimes we need food and other supplies, though the Boss equipped us fairly well. We try to do nothing to attract attention. With the wind generator and solar panels, we're self-sufficient as to power." She meant "electrical power," which Tavington now understood was the source of the lights, the cooling, the ventilation fans, the research machines, and everything else in this strange, mechanical world. Tavington had seen steam engines and Diana had brought him books from the library that explained about "electrical power." The American rebel philosopher, Franklin, had written about electricity, and Diana told him that his work was the basis of their power source.

They reached the end of the pool. By unspoken agreement, they toweled each other off, pausing as they found particularly delightful and interesting places. Diana took him over to yet another machine, one that issued a blast of warm air for drying hair. It was oddly stimulating to stand in the wind of it, and they touched and teased each other, echoing the feel of the mysterious, electrical breeze. He considered taking her then and there, but the uninviting grey stone and metal of the floor and benches seemed too great an impediment in his present weakened condition. His knees, ribs and healing shoulder rebelled at the prospect. Surely Diana must know a better place.

Their clothes were thrown on carelessly. Diana did not bother with her usual underclothes, but slipped her shirt on, and it revealed all too clearly her state of mind. Tavington brushed his palms gently over the sharp, urgent, peaks, and she breathed a soft, involuntary whimper. Without further speech, she hurried him out of the echoing room, and down a new hall, that seemed unduly long. Finally she stopped at another nondescript grey door, and caught his hand in hers.

"This is my room."

* * *

"Do you like it?" 

"The room? Yes, very much."

He did like Diana's room. Over the past few days it had become his home. It was a real woman's room, with personal items he could understand, and that were Diana's own, reflecting both her scholarly interests and her femininity. She had real furniture: proper furniture made of good wood, and handsomely carved. The soft and accommodating bed, the pair of snug wingback chairs, the capacious chest of drawers, and the wide and polished desk contributed to the well-appointed quarters. These were family heirlooms, she told him, as were some of the pictures, a pair of branched silver candlesticks, and a charming little bronze trinket box, Bacchus and his Maenads parading in high relief. There was a shiny black pianoforte of an improved design, and she played wonderful modern music to him: Mozart and Beethoven and Schubert. Her own books were here, and a regular scholar's mess of papers and notes. It was a homelike place, in the midst of the steel-grey austerity of the Aurora Project Research Laboratory.

The few possessions he had were brought here. No one seemed to think anything of Diana and him living together so, and that was a relief, for their intimacy was his greatest pleasure and comfort. How quickly they had relearned all they had known of each other, and found there were still new things to know. They had a private bathroom, a luxury that Tavington appreciated all the more as he savored the novelty of shared showerbaths. The high standards of personal cleanliness made possible and delectable some acts that had hitherto seemed beyond the pale. Diana, he decided, tasted like the ocean, and all that idea encompassed: rich with life, a universe in herself, and his true haven from the confusions and stress of this most fantastic situation.

She told him how she had suffered when she had left, and how the team had overcome the problems that had left her stranded for two years in another time, while only three months had passed at the laboratory. How she had persuaded the others to intervene on his behalf, and how he had been brought here. There were blanks in the story, though, and Tavington guessed she had not yet told him everything.

Mealtimes were very informal (and the food was strange and not very appetizing, save for some spectacular fruits and salads). Only occasionally were all the residents of the Laboratory present. There were fifty in all (though apparently there had formerly been many more), and some of them were often engrossed in their studies and did not emerge from their laboratories. Gradually, Tavington became better acquainted with them. Some, like Diana's friend Gretchen, the woman physician, were friendly enough. Their "systems administrator," Sonia, was almost too friendly. She was very curious about Tavington, asking him astonishingly personal questions; sometimes asking Diana even more personal questions in his presence, as if he were a half-wit, or a stuffed animal on display.

Tavington liked the library. After Diana's room, it was the pleasantest area in the Laboratory. Some of the books were on a machine that he found too incomprehensible to touch, but there was a vast collection of real books: honest books that he could pick up and sit down with; books full of history, of inventions, of natural philosophy, of medical miracles and natural disasters.

The first volumes he had looked for had been books about the Rebellion. There was a whole shelf of them, though there were some gaps that he suspected were places where books had been removed. The books he did find were general histories, and did not contain much detail about the campaign in South Carolina. To his immeasurable disgust, he learned that the rebels had triumphed, that Cornwallis had been forced into ignominious surrender, and that Great Britain had lost the thirteen rebellious colonies. He had slammed the offending book shut, and had sulked for the rest of the afternoon. He finished it the next day, of course. It was like a hideous sight that one should look away from, but instead stared at in irresistible fascination. The subsequent history of the thirteen colonies was equally irritating. He learned enough to satisfy himself, and turned to more pleasant subjects.

Diana loved suggesting books, as did Mark and Gretchen, and the two other historians, Alan and Keith. Tavington found books full of marvelous "photographs," which were true images of real things, made by something like a _camera obscura,_ but which Keith told him used a solution of silver to fix an image on a plate, or "film." These photographs (or "light pictures"—Tavington had enough Greek to understand the origin of the term) showed him everything from battles to beautiful paintings to vast cities, full of tall, remarkably ugly buildings. He had not understood what they were at first, since it took him some time to get a feel for the scale involved.

"But there must be hundreds of steps in them!"

And Diana explained about machines called elevators, which were movable rooms on cables with doors to let one off at the different floors. There were elevators in the Laboratory, in fact, and she showed them to him. They took a ride together, a nerve-wracking affair that seemed rather pointless for human beings, but quite useful when Tavington considered the issue of freight.

The cities in the pictures, though, were not all still in existence. Alan and Keith, working at their desks, exchanged glances. Keith, who was always more forthcoming, suggested more books, and also that Tavington have a long talk with Diana. But there were other, more immediate issues he needed to grasp.

One night, before falling asleep, Tavington asked Diana, "Who owns the Laboratory?"

She was silent. And then, abruptly, she said. "The Boss owns the Aurora Project. But we haven't seen him in some time."

"Who and what is the Boss?" Tavington had never heard the word.

"Boss means—oh, leader, employer, director. Sam Walford is still technically the owner of the property. He's a billionaire who had the original idea for Aurora, and financed us—bought the land, built the lab, hired the team, set aside enough money to keep us going for a long time."

"Is he busy elsewhere?" Tavington was also thinking over the implications of the word, "billionaire."

"You might say that."

Tavington wondered, from her silence, if she was annoyed at his questions, but she spoke again. "Mr. Walford used a time gate five months ago. He doesn't seem interested in coming back. We never thought that the Aurora Project was meant to create one man's private paradise, but apparently that's the way he saw it. At least he left us a big chunk of money."

"I don't understand."

She sighed, and curled up beside him, wrapping his arm around her.

"You understand that we are here to research travel through time, don't you?"  
He grunted assent, and she went on. "Things haven't been going very well for the world these days. You know about the pollution and the heat we warned you about? This area was not always like this. We're in a place called North Dakota, which is pretty much in the middle of North America. It used to be a land of huge wheat fields and harsh winters, but climate all around the world has changed, and sometimes in very odd ways. Now it's hot here much of the year, and very eroded and very barren. Mr. Walford built the lab here because it's not a very populous area and no one is likely to want to bother us. And there's a large natural aquifer far underground to supply us with plenty of water."

"What do you mean, climate has changed? How is that possible?"

"Well," she shifted position, and stroked his chest distractingly. Tavington wanted his questions answered, and laid a gentle, restraining hand on hers. "All right then. You remember the book Keith gave you, about the age of the Earth?"

"And the dinosaurs," Tavington replied eagerly. He had read more books about the amazing dragon-like creatures that had once ruled the Earth. It seemed incredible, but the evidence was convincing. How he would love to see a real dinosaur. Keith said that there were museums that had skeletons of dinosaurs. Tavington wondered if he and Diana could go to one.

"Yes," she said, smiling, "And the dinosaurs. Over the life of the earth, climate has changed often. There have been Ice Ages, and there have been periods of hotter weather. Part of it is due to the movement of the landmasses—"

"Plate tectonics," Tavington said automatically. Michael Flynn, a "geologist," whose accent revealed a hint of Ireland, had stopped by the library and talked to Tavington about dinosaurs, and had also recommended some books. Tavington considered Michael a decent fellow. He seemed to sympathize with Tavington about the limitations of life indoors, and had traveled in some rather wild places. Now and then he would tell Tavington stories about them, and he talked to Tavington as one man to another, not as to an ignorant child or historical relic. He had introduced Tavington to some other interesting men: a machinist who was also an accomplished gunsmith; an "archaeologist" who had seen the ruins of Troy and Babylon.

Diana smiled again. "Exactly. However, other things can affect climate. Since the Industrial Revolution in the 18th century, and to a much greater extent since the beginning of the twentieth century, the machines we used have produced waste materials—gases like carbon dioxide—that have changed the composition of the atmosphere—the air."

"Changing the nature of the air itself seems a risky business."

"Absolutely. But it took a very long time for people to understand that they were doing it. And then it took a very long time to convince people to do anything about it."

"Why?"

"Because a lot of powerful people were making vast fortunes. Even when reputable scientists showed them the evidence of change, they ignored it, or paid their own people to fabricate data that contradicted it. The politicians who owed them favours were not generally very knowledgeable about science, and so believed what their friends told them. And even when the changes really started harming people, there was a lot of denial and clinging to hopes that these were freak events, not all tied together by the same causes."

"Irrational."

"Oh, very. But they finally took notice when the water started rising in New York harbor, when Florida started flooding with seawater, and when—to take a British example—the Thames crawled up to meet London face-to-face. People started building dikes and embankments. Some inhabited islands were completely inundated, and the populations dispersed."

"What caused the floods?"

"The polar icecaps began melting. That raised sea level by a considerable amount. Right now it's thirty feet higher than it was in 2000, for example. The process is still going on—once started, there seems to be no way to stop it. All sorts of things have happened. The overall temperature of the Earth is warmer, the ocean has risen, the winds have changed, and a number of places on the planet are simply uninhabitable."

"But you said there were some fifteen billions in the population! Where do they all live?"

She sighed, "Wherever they can. And of course such a large population places an even greater strain on the planet's resources. Not surprisingly, there are numerous fierce conflicts going on all over the world for land, for fresh water, for food. And there's not much hope of settling them peacefully either. For awhile, back in the twentieth century, there was some interest in space travel, and moving out to other planets. Men actually traveled to the Moon, and there were some fairly good ideas about making the planet Mars habitable, but it all ground to a halt in the early twenty-first century."

This was exciting! He would see if there were books about this in the library. "But why?"

"Well, it was fabulously expensive, and it was hard to make the scientifically ignorant understand the long-term advantages. Some of the governments that had made the most progress were taken over for a number of years by some religious zealots, who really didn't see the point, anyway."

He stared up at the ceiling, baffled.

She laughed at the memory. "I know this sounds absolutely crazy, but they were convinced that the Second Coming was at hand, and so there was no point in worrying about the environment, or about the population explosion, or about disease, or about scientific advancements. They thought the righteous were going to be taken off to Heaven, and they didn't care about the wicked who would be left behind."

Tavington was still staring, utterly astounded. "A curious version of Christian charity! How could such idiots be entrusted with power?"

"Don't ask me," shrugged Diana. "It's one of those historical things that seems completely insane when one reads about it later. Like Tulipomania in seventeenth century Holland." She sighed. "What we're trying to do—or at least, what we _were_ trying to do-- is to find a way to change things just enough to prevent this disaster of a world we live in now."

* * *

The next night, nearly the entire team was present at dinner. Tavington had a nodding acquaintance with the three engineers at their table, and had already been introduced to the two "biologists," who were named, he thought absurdly, Justin and Dustin. There was a new face, a painfully thin young woman in shabby clothing, to whom he was presented. This was Jennifer, their botanist. 

Rather pleased to meet someone whose field of expertise was immediately comprehensible to him, he made an effort to get to know the extraordinarily shy scientist. Diana teased her gently, telling Tavington that Jennifer rarely left her greenhouse.

Jennifer grumbled, face nearly hidden behind the curtain of her long brown hair, "And you hardly ever leave the library, so I guess we're even."

Tavington wanted to hear more. "A greenhouse? I should very much like to see it." He had always loved plants, and wondered what exotics the future world had developed.

Jennifer turned very red, and began to stammer. She seemed to have trouble simply looking him in the face, and she whispered, "Sure. Fine. Anytime." Growing bolder, she added, "Actually there are several greenhouses. Come whenever you want." Then she must have felt she had gone too far, and hid behind her hair again.

"How about tomorrow after breakfast?" Tavington suggested, eager for variety in this strange, cloistered world.

Jennifer stole another glance at him, still blushing. "Okay. If you like. It's a date." She looked at Diana, and became very flustered. "I mean, it's not really a date—I just mean—"

"Jennifer, it's all right." Diana was too kind to laugh at her. "It's very nice of you to show Will the greenhouses. I didn't want to intrude on your work, but I'm happy you've invited him. They're the most beautiful thing in the whole place." She smiled encouragingly at Tavington. "Jennifer is the reason that we eat as well as we do. She grows a lot of the fruits and vegetables, as well as keeping up with all of her work researching historical plants, and creating really amazing hybrids. But I'll let her tell you herself tomorrow."

Jennifer, ducking her head, took a place at the far end of the table, and picked at her food, peeking occasionally at Tavington in a timid way. He tried not to meet her eyes, knowing that would only embarrass her further, and could possibly be interpreted by Diana as a flirtation. She, however, was quietly amused by it all.

"Well," she murmured, for his ears alone, "definitely a new conquest for the Colonel. Be kind to her. She's a very sweet girl, and she's terrified of men in general. Actually, I think she's terrified of people as a whole. That doesn't mean she doesn't recognize a catch when she sees one. Utterly undone by your manly charms, I'd say."

"Don't." Tavington murmured back, trying not to laugh. "I can see that she's very nice-a very sweet, gentle girl. She needs to eat something, though. She's like a skeleton, the poor creature. Is she ill?"

"I don't think so. Not physically anyway. She's had a lot of tragedy in her past. Her family was caught in the Border Food Riots, and some of them were eaten."

Tavington stopped, fork nearly to his mouth, and darted a glance at Diana to see if she could be serious. She raised her brows meaningfully. Apparently, she was. Tavington set his fork down. It was time to speak plainly.

He thought a moment. "You know, Diana, the more I hear about this future of yours, the more I think you should consider returning with me to my time. We may not have medical miracles or elevators, or photographs, or dinosaurs, but we have fresh air and fresh meat." He gestured disdainfully at the mysterious cutlet on his plate. "What is this anyway?"

"Soy." Gretchen was sitting opposite and overheard. She added, seeing Tavington's confusion. "I was wondering when you'd break down and ask. Pretty terrible, isn't it? It's not real meat. It's soybean protein that's processed to resemble meat—beef, I suppose."

Tavington was tired of tact. "Only a passing resemblance, I assure you. I suppose with the huge population, there's nowhere to pasture animals."

Michael passed a dish of tomatoes, a savory fruit Tavington had not known before, but for which he was rapidly developing a taste. "There's that," he agreed, "and also the fact that it's not really practical to feed animals food that people need. Livestock production in general has been drastically reduced."

"What about fish?"

There were scattered groans and laughs. Diana and Gretchen had strange expressions on their faces, as if he had somehow said something quite indelicate.

Michael snorted, "Only if you want your hair and teeth to fall out from mercury poisoning."

"It's that desperate?"

"Yes." Michael was refreshingly straightforward . "We're a lot better off than most. In fact, we can support more here than we do—and we have. I don't think it was right for Walford to let most of the applied techs go." He explained, "We had hundreds of craftspeople who actually knew how to make the clothes, the tools, the weapons—everything material necessary for time travel. Once Walford had everything he needed for his own jaunt, he gave them all their walking papers."

Mark broke in sourly, "He waved goodbye, and told us if we had any sense, we'd do what he was doing—find a cosy place in the past, and live out our lives there, and forget about trying to save the world. Selfish bastard."

"But rich, certainly by the standards of 1875. And he took Maggie along, so he has his own doctor." Keith gave Tavington a sly wink. "He tried to talk Diana into joining him, but she wasn't having any. I hope his teeth rot. He won't enjoy dentistry 1875 style."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Mark agreed.

Tavington was beginning to understand how this strange place was ordered. He turned to Diana. "You see, my dear, even this Boss of yours knew the thing to do was to go into the past. I'm very grateful to your friends for their care, but I still have a war to fight, and I very much hope you will come back with me."

Alan, the other historian, a sardonic, bony Englishman, cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "Go back? You can't go back. Diana, haven't you told him yet?"

Next to Tavington, Diana had stiffened, and flinched at Tavington's confused and outraged glance. Alan grinned unpleasantly. "Truth is best, Di. Surely you've told Soldier Boy here that he's part of the team now."

Tavington glared at his countryman with dislike. "What do you mean, part of the team? I have to go back, I have responsibilities, I have friends. I have a life back in 1781, and I'll be most grateful if you would send me back as soon as possible."

Diana bit her lip, and murmured, "That's just the thing, Will. You don't. William Tavington died on January 17, 1781, at the Battle of Cowpens. All the accounts say so."

He was stunned. "The gaps in the bookshelves. You hid the books. You said I wasn't dead."

"And you're not. Not here, anyway. But back in 1781, William Tavington was killed."

* * *

**Notes:** _The Oxford English Dictionary_, which shows the date of the first occurrence of a word in written English, is my reference for words that would be unfamiliar to Tavington. I have shown them in quotes, along with other familiar words that might seem strange to him in context. Not all of them, of course, or it would be too cumbersome. 

**Next chapter:** Tavington contemplates the paradoxes of time, and has an epiphany.


	11. The Door Into Time, Part 2

Disclaimer: The makers of the film _The Patriot_ own Colonel Tavington. I own the rest.

Genre: romance/time travel

Tavington contemplates the paradoxes of time, and has an epiphany…

Episode 9: The Door Into Time

Part II

Diana was curled up on the bed, waiting for him. He was not angry with her, and did not like to see the suppressed fear in her attitude. He sat down close beside her, and rested a soothing hand on the admirable curve of her hip.

"Alan is such a swine," she muttered.

"Yes, I rather think you're right," he replied.

"I didn't want you to find out like that. I needed more time. We have all the time in the world, at this end of history. I was going to talk to you first, and then show you the accounts, and discuss it with you afterward. I just needed more time."

"What's done is done. I suppose I knew all along how badly hurt I was. I hadn't bothered to consider that I could not possibly have survived those wounds in my own time." He lay down on his side behind her and they nestled like spoons. He wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her tight against his chest. "How in the world did you rescue me? Did no one notice that I was gone?"

She cleared her throat. "No one realized you _were_ gone. Give us credit for careful planning. We had time to obtain a medical cadaver bearing a slight resemblance to you. With gruesome injuries and a uniform just like yours, it was taken for you. I wasn't there, of course. It was Michael, Mark, Keith, and Dieter."

"The gunsmith?" Thinking it over, he could see those four dealing with the situation effectively.

"Yes—he's quite the military history buff. They opened two horizontal gates, only minutes apart. One was for scouting. They discovered that you were wounded about twenty yards away from the site we originally supposed. The second gate was carefully chosen to avoid catching a local, and led back directly into Mark's operating room. They rushed out, with body armor under their 18th century uniforms and protected by a dense smoke screen. They arranged the corpse, snatched you up, and were back fast enough to save your life. But it was a very near thing."

He said gravely, "Then I shall render my heartfelt thanks to them tomorrow. But why me?"

"I love you."

His throat swelled, and he kissed her hair. "And I you, my dearest. But that doesn't explain why your four friends would risk themselves for me, and why the rest of the staff would permit it. I thought you were all terribly concerned about affecting the past unwisely."

"And we are. And the rest of the staff didn't know about it until we could present them with a _fait accompli_. Oh, Michael and Dieter thought it was all a ripping adventure. Mark was interested in the medical challenge. Keith went along with it because I persuaded him that you would be a wonderful addition to the research team, and that this was our only chance to recruit you."

"What is it you would have me do, Diana? I am not a scholar, nor a scientist."

She rolled over, facing him in the dim light. "But you have an intimate knowledge of a world we only know from books. Remember how incompetent I was back in Charleston? Everyone thought I was a complete lunatic. They say that '_the past is a foreign country—they do things differently there.' _You have practical expertise that could be vital when exploring any place from the late seventeenth century through the first third of the nineteenth." She stroked his cheek, and teased, "You need a shave."

"I know," he admitted. "God forbid that I grow a beard like some of your friends!"

"Beards help them blend in when we visit the mid-to-late nineteenth century. It was a very hirsute time."

"How very uncivilized." Tavington snorted a laugh. "So you want my advice. Do you want my company on your travels?"

"Yes," she confessed. "One of the most important lessons learned from my difficulties in Charleston is that sending a time traveler alone into a past world is terribly frightening and stressful for him-–or for her. Any extended research trips will be done in pairs, at least, from now on."

He had had enough of the Aurora Project for one night. He fumbled for the hem of her shirt and eased it over her head. As he tossed it to the floor, he purred, "And what shall the pair of us research tonight?"

* * *

They were adrift without a leader, Tavington decided. He observed the various project members, each intent on their specialties, and saw noover-arching objectives. Walford had used them to establish a comfortable refuge, and then discarded them. It was an interesting situation, but one without purpose. He explored the huge compound, and discovered that much of it was unused and uninhabited. There were empty barns for livestock and horses; there were empty barracks for individuals and families. One day he found a huge boathouse with two large and handsome yachts, both gathering dust. There was a "hangar" containing two "airplanes." The pilots, he learned, had been dismissed along with so many others. Workshops were silent. He paused in one, fingering a freshly minted gold guinea with the date "1772." The material resources of the Aurora Project were breathtaking. 

He visited Jennifer in her vast greenhouses, as he often did in the morning, enjoying the scent of growing things, the perfumes of her exotics, and the curious hybrids in the garden plots.

"It seems to me you could use some help," he observed.

She was becoming accustomed to him, though she still blushed whenever he spoke to her. "Are you volunteering?"

He knelt beside her in the perfectly balanced growing medium. It did not smell like proper dirt, but it served it purpose. "For today, perhaps. I am no expert. How can they expect you to deal with all of this alone?"

"I had assistants before the Boss fired them," she mumbled. "Rogelio and Sheila and Tracy. They were really nice." Her hair hid her face as she worked. "I miss them. They didn't want to go. Rogelio had his whole family here, and Tracy had a little boy and they didn't really have anywhere else to live. I've heard that none of them are in good shape right now. They have stipends to live on as part of the confidentiality agreement, but nothing else. There isn't much out there unless you're fabulously rich."

Tavington sat back on his heels, head cocked to one side. Things suddenly seemed clearer. "You said Walford sent them away. But he is not here. What is to prevent you from recalling all the staff he dismissed? I was told there is still a great deal of capital left to spend on the project."

She stared at him, and then ducked her head. "I don't know. I didn't think about it. What if he comes back and is mad about it?"

"My dear Jennifer," he snorted. "It seems quite clear that he is not returning. It is time for the entire Project to reconsider its future. Do you never meet to discuss these issues?"

She was planting lettuce, and continued scattering the tiny seeds, her face toward the raised bed. "Department heads used to report, and sometimes we had general meetings. But the Boss isn't here to call meetings any more, so I guess we got out of the habit."

Tavington returned to the task of the moment, and handed her a second pack of seeds, still thinking. "I believe it is time to renew old habits, and perhaps learn some new ones."

They worked together in silence, moving from one plot to the next. Several times Jennifer seemed ready to speak, and then did not. She was plainly working herself up to make a pronouncement of some sort. Tavington decided to be patient. He was an outsider, and it would not do to press these unworldly folk too hard.

She stood up and pushed a lock of hair from her face. "Calling them back in is a really good idea. I can't believe I didn't think of it. But if I go to Lisa in the front office, she'll tell me she needs authorization to rehire them."

Tavington remembered Lisa, the project secretary. She was an older woman, efficient and unimaginative, dutifully filing the specialists' reports, and observing the established procedures. She had given Diana and her friends some argument about Tavington's presence, calling him an "unauthorized expenditure." She was not a bad sort, for she had apologized in some confusion for her rudeness. Nonetheless, she was a mere clerk--a born follower--and was still clinging to the dictates of her revered "Boss."

"Did Walford leave no one in charge?"

"No, I guess he didn't care what happened once he was gone." She shrugged. Tavington felt uneasily that the girl was all too accustomed to the idea that her fate was unimportant. Perhaps Walford had deliberately chosen his team for submissive qualities, as far as he possibly could. Or, in the case of the scholars and engineers, for such devotion to their chosen fields that they were indifferent to the situation as a whole.

"Jennifer." He walked over to face her, and touched a pitifully thin shoulder with a gentle hand. She would not look at him, and seemed alarmed at the physical contact. "Don't you think it matters what happens?" She shrugged again. He persisted. "What do y_ou_ want to achieve with this project?"

She muttered, "I want to grow my plants."

"Yes, but what else? Do you want to stay in this place forever?"

"It's better than outside. Nobody bothers me. We're really safe here."

He gave her a slight shake. "Think! It cannot last forever." She looked up at him beseechingly, appalled that he had suggested something so terrible. Quietly but firmly, Tavington said, "With Walford gone, it is time for the project members to set their own course. What happened to the idea of changing the past to save the future?"

She pulled away. "Oh, go talk to Diana! I don't think it's possible anymore. It's just too hard. Did she tell you what happened to Esther?"

"Who?"

"You just talk to her." She ran a dirty hand through her hair. "If you can think of a way to get my people back, that would be great. But you should still go talk to Diana."

* * *

It was not Diana he spoke to, but the geologist Michael, whom he found lounging in the library before lunch time. He was about Tavington's size, a big-shouldered man with shaggy dark-blond hair and extraordinarily large boots. Those boots were propped up on a library table, as Michael leaned back in his chair to read. He saw Tavington enter the library, and gave him a cordial nod. Before he could get back to his book, Tavington walked over and asked abruptly, "Who was Esther?" 

The Irish-American's mouth quirked up, and his eyes glinted with mischief. Tavington said stiffly, "And do not say the wife of Ahasuerus, or I shall knock you out of your chair. I was discussing project goals with Jennifer and she seemed very pessimistic. She mentioned an Esther, and said it was all too hard."

Michael Kelly chuckled grimly, and threw a glance about the huge circular room. One level above, Alan Swinburne was reading in a paneled carrel, his bony face engrossed in his book. On the other side of the room, two engineers were deep in whispered discussion, their hands tracing their arguments to and fro. Diana was nowhere in evidence, and Michael, reading his thoughts, told him, "Diana's with Penny, discussing appropriate dress fabrics for the 1730's. She's a stickler for details, and she's still angry about losing our wonderful seamstresses."

"That's another issue I'll raise in due course." Tavington ignored Michael's puzzlement. "Now, who is Esther, and why is she such an object lesson in the futility of the project goals?"

Michael gestured at a chair, and Tavington sat down at the table. In a quiet murmur, plainly meant only for Tavington's ears, he began an unhappy tale.

"Esther Simon was another of our historians. In fact, she was the department head. She was quite a coup for Walford to collect—an extremely well-known figure in her field—an expert in European studies. Her theory was that if we could stop the outbreak of the First World War, we could save millions of lives, slow down the pace of uncontrolled technology, and prevent some of the worst developments from radical political theories and from the period of colonization that followed the war."

"Colonization hardly began with the First World War," Tavington pointed out dryly.

"True. But Esther didn't think we could avert that particular process entirely. She got into it pretty fiercely with Keith and Diana, who thought we should try an earlier intervention so we could prevent the African slave trade. Esther was committed to changing the past as little as possible, and it's obvious that the further back you go, the greater the changes you cause. Anyway, Walford gave Esther the go-ahead." He lowered his voice still further, and went on.

"Esther tried to prevent the assassination of Grand Duke Ferdinand. I won't give you all the gory details, but the upshot was that she succeeded in delaying his trip through Sarajevo, but it wasn't enough. The assassins still got the Grand Duke and his wife—and Esther and two other team members were killed trying to save them. It was a disaster. I think that was when Sam gave up on changing the past and decided just to live with it."

Tavington had listened in silence. After a moment's thought, he said, "Then he's a coward."

He took his leave and strode quickly through the halls to the swimming pool. It was a good place to think, while he used up superfluous energy. A new and quite novel idea had crossed his mind, and he needed to sort it out.

* * *

The auditorium was sparsely peopled when they arrived that evening. Diana had warned Tavington that many of the team members hated general meetings, and made a point of avoiding them. She was the new history department head, in fact, because while she was younger than Keith or Alan, they had absolutely refused to serve in that capacity. It was only by telling her colleagues something of what Tavington had planned, that she _had_ persuaded them to attend at all. 

Those who knew Tavington best were present. He had talked to a number of them: experts who desperately wanted the return of their assistants for a variety of reasons. He had also cultivated the physicists and the engineers to find out if his idea was even possible. They had told him it was, but they had not believed that he was going to seriously suggest it.

Diana herself was somewhat shocked at his proposal. It was something so far beyond the original scope of the project that it took her a few days to comprehend the possibilities. She had agreed to support him, but Tavington knew that it was partly because of her feelings for him, not because she was convinced that his idea was sound.

The staff straggled to their seats, chattering all the while. Diana attempted to catch their attention, but they were treating the meeting as a social event. After a moment, Tavington went to the podium, and used the voice that had set the British Legion quaking in its boots.

"Ladies and gentlemen! I am the newest among you! Nevertheless, if you would do me the courtesy of attending, I would like to offer some observations that may be of some interest to you!"

His acid tones cut through the gossip: the staff assembled fluttered like startled pigeons. It was enough. He had years of experience as an officer, and this was an undisciplined crowd that needed leadership.

He had organized his remarks carefully, surmising that his first proposal would be well received. The suggestion that the dismissed technicians and their families be recalled was a popular one. Only Lisa dithered a little, nervously insisting that they had no authority to do so.

Tavington had prepared for this objection. "In the absence of Mr Walford, and in the absence of any deputy appointed by him, I propose an executive council to direct research and oversee the administration of the project. The department heads could meet on a regular basis—"

There were a few groans. A physicist complained, "I'm a scientist, not a manager! I don't have time for steering committees!"

Tavington cut him off tersely. "I believe that you will want your department represented, if only to prevent others from steering it in a direction disagreeable to you! If a ship is _not_ steered, it drifts aimlessly and ends on the rocks!"

Michael was in the second row, grinning. He leaped to his feet. "I agree that we need to take charge of the project ourselves. I also agree that meeting more than once a week would interfere with vital research. Colonel Tavington here has executive experience, and no regular duties. I move that we elect him chief executive officer, to be answerable to the committee of department heads!" He roared out, "All in favor say aye!"

"Aye!" shouted a chorus of relieved voices.

Michael gave Tavington a wink, and said in an aside, "Looks like the job's all yours, bucko!"

Diana regarded him with sympathy, not understanding that the staff had done exactly what he had hoped for. Tavington was only slightly surprised at the offer. It was apparent that few of these people relished the idea of exercising authority. Yet someone must.

Michael turned to face the other staff members. "Anyone say nay?"

Alan stood. "I'm not precisely in disagreement, but I cannot but wonder what Colonel Tavington has in mind." He sneered slightly. "And I presume you _do_ have something in mind, do you not, Colonel?"

It was a perfect opportunity. Tavington declared, "I do indeed."

This was the crisis. Tavington could refer the technical questions to the members of the applied physics department, who were all present. He presented his proposal quickly, clearly, and with the same air of supreme confidence he had used to explain battle plans and give orders. He had not lost his touch.

They were quiet, and then muttered a little among themselves. They were willing to consider it, at least.

Keith waved his hand, and stood. "All of us? You really mean all of us? That many people are bound to be noticed."

"Yes." Tavington replied crisply. "We _shall_ be noticed. All of us, and the entire laboratory complex as well. Dr. Kolb assures me that a time gate of a commensurate size is quite feasible. We shall go openly. What reason have we for secrecy? It avails us nothing. And the more of us who go, the greater credence, the greater security, the greater chance of establishing a communality that can survive the challenges of the past, and create the kind of world we all desire. We shall have one another. There will be no more lonely journeys into the past."

Gretchen objected, "But if we alter the past too much, we can never return to the future. We won't exist."

"No," Tavington agreed, "But is it not your consensus that this future is untenable?" She nodded reluctantly. "Well then," he continued, still in resolute command mode, "Dr. Kolb and his able colleagues have found that even if one alters the future, one can still remain in the past. Therefore, our researchers can propose a past that suits our needs. We can go anywhere, to any time. In the event that past is not to our liking, we can always go further back in time. But to protect the team as a whole, and to explore all possible options, it is necessary that the entire project make the journey."

He had them. He could see their growing excitement as the idea caught fire. Diana was gazing at him in awe. She had never seen anything of his life as a soldier, and had never witnessed his dealings with his men or with the enemy.

Dieter stood next, and called out, "So where do we begin? Everything must be in order before we dare move the entire compound."

"I quite agree," affirmed Tavington. "Therefore, there will be a meeting of all department heads tomorrow morning. I suggest all of you get a good night's sleep and come to the meeting prepared to contribute useful ideas. And that is all I have to say at the moment." He gave them a slight bow of acknowledgement and stalked away through them, dismissing the shouted questions with "Tomorrow." It was always better to make a commanding exit than to stay and bicker. That only caused one to lose authority.

He passed through the grey-metal halls, and heard light steps running after him. He waited to let Diana catch up. She was quite aglow, and he was pleased that he had won her over, at least.

"William! You were brilliant! Everyone is so inspired—at last we have a direction. I admit I didn't think it possible, but now I'm so excited!" She took his arm and pressed against him. "How about the Restoration? We can help prevent the plague and fire in London. Charles II might be rational enough to believe us. What about Bermuda before the landing of 1609? What about—"

"What about getting to bed?" he growled amiably, nuzzling her ear. "And tomorrow we shall also began making plans for our _private_ life together." He swept her up in his arms and rushed to their room. Tomorrow would be soon enough to talk, soon enough to have that abominable device excised from under her skin, soon enough to began having the life he wanted, even if it were to be in the distant past. For himself, he had visions of sailing past the Pharos of Alexandria, or riding through the green freshness of a land uninhabited centuries before. New Zealand? Madagascar? Perhaps Diana's idea of Bermuda might be suitable. Anywhere but this claustrophobic metal hothouse.

He kicked the door open, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, covering his face with kisses. She was giggling like a young girl. He smiled slightly, and ruthlessly caught her mouth with his, pressing her up against the wall. He grasped her under her thighs and heaved against her, again and again. The glass prisms of her silver candlesticks clinked together sympathetically with the vibrations. Diana cooed softly as sensitive parts rubbed together, pleasurable even through the barrier of their clothes. Tavington once more mentally cursed whoever had set the fashion of women wearing pants. It was unnatural, unattractive, and bloody inconvenient. Turning, he tossed her onto the luxurious bed, and was on her before she could manage a laugh of protest.

* * *

**Next chapter: Part III.** Tavington continues his hijacking of the Aurora Project, and considers where to go. Shall they travel to prehistory, to the Hellenistic Mediterranean, to late Roman Britain; or to the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution? And who shall they take with them? Tavington considers retrieving some old comrades. 

Apologies to the brilliant and likable Dr. Rocky Kolb of Fermilab, one of my favorite physicists. You might enjoy his book, _Blind Watchers of the Sky._


	12. The Door Into Time, Part 3

Disclaimer: The makers of the film _The Patriot_ own Colonel Tavington. I own the rest.

Genre: romance/time travel 

Tavington continues hijacking the Aurora Project, and much discussion ensues….

Episode 9: The Door Into Time

Part III 

Tavington quite liked Walford's lavish office. Lisa, already there and hard at work that morning, had hovered anxiously until he shooed her away. She was unsure about allowing an interloper into her former director's inner sanctum, but she had also seemed oddly relieved. _A born follower needs some one in charge_, Tavington reflected. She was a industrious, serious woman, and Tavington hoped that in time he could win from her the kind of loyalty she had shown her former revered "Boss."

The style of the office was not that alien to Tavington. In this utilitarian compound, it was a haven of wood-paneled walls; deep, comfortable chairs upholstered in dark leather; a wide and handsome cherry desk; shelves of books and artifacts from all over the world; some good pictures, though a few in an incomprehensibly "abstract" style. He sat at the desk, and rifled through the drawers with delight, finding a trove of little treasures. One was a "laser pointer." Diana had one, but this was in a fine case with a pen and a pencil, and all were of gold. Tavington had come to admire the innovations in writing tools, and took Walford's pen in hand with some pleasure. These things were his, for now; and might be his always if he proved himself the kind of leader he hoped he really was.

He wrote out a list of subjects for discussion at the meeting, and then got up, pacing restlessly. A great deal of the upcoming meeting hinged on other details of the conversations he had had with Dr Kolb in the past few days. The physicist would be at the meeting, and Tavington could refer technical questions to him. He liked the fellow, though he failed to understand how a grown man could allow himself to be called by a name like "Rocky." Still, it was a harmless eccentricity, and the man had been a mine of information. And he had been nearly as fired by the Tavington's idea as Tavington himself. True to his promise, he had said nothing until Tavington could lay his proposal before the Project members. His wife, Kolb had told him, was one of the scientists dismissed by Walford when he left—an astronomer. She and their child were living with relations. Kolb, in their private conversations, had declared himself squarely in Tavington's corner, if only for the prospect of a reunion with his family, and the possibility of a better life for them. _Perhaps he'd also like to have more than the one child authorized by the government._ Kolb had told him more about this time's Draconian social policies and the associated penalties; and the reason for Diana's prophylactic device became clear. Tavington grimaced in distaste at the idea of state interference in the sacred preserve of a man's marital relations. _What an abominable place!_

There was another door in the office, and Tavington opened it, finding himself in a wide passage, still in the same attractive and not unfamiliar style. There were three doors here. One was to a well-fitted water closet—most convenient, for him. He made a point of using it immediately, feeling that he had somehow marked it as his. The next door opened into a conference room with a big polished table and many chairs. _Excellent. _Opening the last revealed what were evidently Walford's personal quarters when in residence. Tavington paused and tried not to gape. Diana had told him of Walford's fantastic wealth, and the entire Project was proof of it, but not until seeing this place had it been brought home to him in such a personal way. Their rich, Diana had assured him, were _very _rich; just as everyone else was poor. There were evidently several rooms here, but he had no time to linger. That would be an amusing prospect for later. After the meeting, if all went well, he and Diana would explore these amazing rooms together.

Time. Points in time. Eras. Ages in the past. Time was the crux of the matter, and the substance of his thoughts. He was in a sensitive position. He had been given the leadership of the Aurora Project because no one else wanted it. However, he was not an absolute leader, or a leader with any physical power over his subordinates. He could not make outrageous suggestions, and would have to remain balanced delicately between authority and consensus.

Briefly, he had daydreamed about bringing the Aurora Project into the South Carolina of the rebellion. Even if the staff members would permit such an intervention (and he was perfectly sure they would not, given that many of them were convinced that "The American Revolution" had been a very good idea), what would he really achieve? The thanks of a grateful nation? A knighthood? He might possibly obtain a brief audience with His Majesty, but what would that serve? Would George III have any grasp of the lessons of the future that Tavington could disclose? Would anyone care, except to snatch all the amazing discoveries that could be exploited for gain? Tavington would still have to bow and scrape before aristocrats like Cornwallis, and he would be a nine-days' wonder, a mere oddity. The King's ministers would seize control the Aurora Project, and God knows what would become of the staff.

No. They must go farther back. He knew that his own education had prejudiced him in favor of some places rather than others. It would be the same with the rest. They would all plump for the past they studied, for their specialties. However, they could not choose a time to entrust their lives and futures to simply because it would, as Diana sometimes regrettably said, "be neat."

The department heads arrived, exchanging greetings. They seemed a little more animated than they had in the past. _A new project, a common goal—it seems to have been just what they needed._ Most smiled at him as they came in. Some, who did not know him all that well, addressed him as "Colonel." Tavington felt a little thrill of satisfaction. Being addressed by a proper title gave him, however fallaciously, a faint aura of legitimate authority. He was beginning to comprehend the egalitarianism of the Project. It was understandable in a small group of educated individuals. He suspected they would not be quite so egalitarian when the entire support staff, from research assistants to kitchen help, was reinstated. But it was all one to him: _Let them all be equal to one another, as long as they know they are not equal to me._ They were all looking at him, faces full of hope and expectancy. It would not do to disappoint. He took his place at the head of the long table and let them sit in anticipation a brief moment before starting the meeting.

"An island," Tavington began. "I believe that an island would be our best choice for a home in the past."

There was an excited babble at the conference table, with everyone talking about places they liked, or had liked reading about, or to which they had sentimental attachments.

The head of Sociology, whose name, most unpronounceably, was Lyudmilla, was concerned. "Not an inhabited island, I hope. It would be wrong to displace an aboriginal population." Some rolled their eyes. Tavington did not.

Michael smiled slyly. "We might make friends with the locals. What's left of Ireland is still fairly lush and green even in this time. It would be a fine sight in the old days—good soil, plenty of rain, a good place for horses—"

Tavington shook his head, and regained control of the discussion. "We might make friends with the locals, or we might not. Even if we recall every single staff member and the families as well, this group of scholars and craftsmen is not up to an assault by spear-wielding ancient warriors." Some the staff shuddered. Tavington internally shuddered himself. Some of the men could be of use in a fight, and more might be trained for emergencies, but it was not a desirable prospect. "As it happens, I quite agree with—um—with our sociologist." He brought of the word quite naturally, and was absurdly pleased with himself. _Now if I could just manage her name._ "I think an uninhabited island is exactly where we should go. Our people will need time to build up our settlement, establish a kind of commerce, adapt to their new lives. We will still want to have time to pursue our mission in the past. The distractions of tribal warfare would prove disastrous."

"Bermuda?" guessed Diana, with a hopeful glint in her eye.

"Not Bermuda, my dear," Tavington replied, "but Madeira."

There were some puzzled looks. A number of those present had never even heard of Madeira. Tavington had been there briefly during a voyage before the war, when his ship stopped to water and revictual. He had been much struck by the place, and wondered that it was not better known. Perhaps it too, like so much else of natural beauty, had been laid waste by the warming of the planet and the poisoning of the air and sea.

A map of the Atlantic with the coastlines to east and west was displayed. Tavington used his new toy, the laser pointer, to some effect.

"Bermuda," he declared, highlighting the tiny island almost in the middle of the Atlantic. "Very nice by all accounts, and it proved nearly a paradise for the ship-wrecked ship's company of the _Sea Venture_ in 1609. But it is quite small: only about 50 square miles, and rather low. It appears that severe storms-even hurricanes--are not unknown. I have other reservations as well. We might be able to live out our lives rather comfortably there, but we would truly be isolated from the rest of the world. Conventional travel by sea would be extremely hazardous. We could, of course, use the Aurora Device to travel to geographically distant places in nearly the same time, but I am informed that might not be desirable on a regular basis." There were signs of agreement from all around the table.

Herb Schultz, the senior archaeologist, had more to say. "In the long run, that kind of isolation could be dangerous. What if in the next few generations we lost the knowledge of navigation or had trouble building a large enough vessel to sail the Atlantic? What if the Aurora Device failed? We could have a disaster like the one on Easter Island." Tavington raised his brows, and Herb explained. "Easter Island is the most remote island on earth. The Polynesians got there, and then overpopulated it and deforested it until the culture collapsed in a murderous fight for resources. They didn't have much of anything but volcanic obsidian, which makes very good weapons."

There was a brief, uneasy silence. Tavington smile thinly. "Thank you, sir, for that insight. Bermuda could easily become overpopulated as well." He highlighted another, larger island, about five hundred miles off the Moroccan coast, and not far south of the Straits of Gibraltar. "Madeira, however, while it is isolated enough for safety, is within reasonable sailing distance of the Mediterranean for even an indifferent navigator. It is bigger than the island of Malta—over 700 square miles. It has a most pleasant and delicate climate—"

"Right in the Gulf Stream," agreed Michael.

"—which I consider of great importance for a population that is unaccustomed to life out-of-doors. Nothing could be more encouraging or be clearer proof of the improvement in their situation than agreeable, moderate weather, with no need to hide from sun and heat. I would like Jennifer—" the botanist perked up at her name, "to study the possibilities of crops and plantations there. I know that Madeira is famous for wine, fruits, and flowers, but obviously it can produce other foodstuffs."

"We need Jack Gronewald. He's the agronomist," Jennifer suggested shyly.

Tavington nodded with approval. "Then we shall put his name at the top of list of people to recall. Madeira has good harbors. I believe there is another, smaller, habitable island in the archipelago that also has harbors and beaches. Our people will relearn the pleasures of fishing." He saw some winces, and stated firmly, "It will be an excellent, bountiful resource, and completely untainted in that long-ago time. Though the estimable Dr Johnson himself has said that _'it was a brave man that first et an oyster,'_ I predict that within a short time, fishing will be a favored pastime, and fish and shellfish an important part of our diet." Tavington had found a map and basic information about Madeira to bring to the meeting, and Lisa had copied it for everyone with one of her infernal machines. She was sitting discreetly in a corner now, busily taking minutes.

"There's something else in Madeira's favor," Michael spoke up. "There's no record of any seismic activity on there. Whereas the Azores have frequent, severe quakes."

An engineer peered at his map. "What about this chain of islands closer to Africa? They look a lot bigger."

Michael frowned. "The Canary Islands get a lot of wind and dust off the Sahara. Even Madeira gets a little occasionally."

Diana was looking at the ceiling, plainly trying to recall details. "I believe—" she began, and then said slowly—"I believe that the Canaries were known to be inhabited even in classical times. Yes," she said more confidently. "The name isn't because of the birds. It's because of all the wild dogs said to be running around them." She saw the amused expressions at the table, and added defensively, "I think it's in Pliny. "

"What about Madeira?" Michael turned to Diana, who was looking through the packet of information.

She turned a page, and said to Tavington, with a teasing smile, "You've been doing your research, Colonel!" She read, _"Madeira might have been sighted by the Phoenicians, but there is no evidence of any settlement until the Portuguese, under the direction of Prince Henry the Navigator, charted first Porto Santo in 1418, and then Madeira Island in 1419. Settlement began soon after."_ She looked up, and gave her lover a keen glance. "Evidently you want to go farther back in time than we previously intended."

"Yes," replied Tavington, giving the committee no time to argue. "Please hear my reasons before you offer comment. You brought me here for my superior understanding of the workings of the 18th century. From that superior knowledge I can tell you that it would be extremely difficult to change or even slow the industrial progress of the United Kingdom. The King would not understand our admonitions, and people with interest and influence would not agree to shut down certain profitable operations simply because they might lead to later abuses or to even more harmful developments. As I understand it, Britain's wealth of coal spurred much of its inventiveness. The coal is not going away. Someone is going to use it, and if they were to be forbidden to build in England, they will go elsewhere."

He moved to the issue that most concerned him. "More to the point: by the 18th century, it will be impossible to find a place to live that is not already under a powerful nation's authority."

"Pitcairn's Island," Michael suggested, and grinned.

"Very amusing," Tavington replied frostily. "And if we suddenly appear, it will not be unclaimed for long. How will you maintain independence in the face of the Royal Navy, or the French, or the Spanish? You will deal with those who will have no hesitation in plundering your discoveries for what they can immediately use, and who will discount your warnings. They may even seize this facility. What would some individuals do with the power of time travel?" He allowed that to sink in. "Independence is our wisest, safest, our best course."

Mark was thinking as well. "We could always send some of our people to buy property outright in England. We would have legitimate use of our land, and our own technology would influence the course history takes for the better. We can teach them about wind and solar power—"

Lyudmilla was uneasy. "If we live in a densely inhabited area we obviously can't keep secret the fact that we are time travelers. Once that gets out we're going to have endless security problems. We can't be sure that we will only influence technology. The tremendous power we can wield might cause the government to react in a despotic manner—seizing the facility to control us for political purposes. Interactions with the locals would be touchy, at best. There was some large-scale political violence there in the 18th and 19th century. We could spur even more unrest. I think the Colonel is right: it would be very dangerous to put ourselves in the power of any government. We've managed to stay under the radar of our own Central Committee. I think we all know what will happen if someone really takes notice. That's why I'm very much interested in hearing more of what Colonel Tavington has to say."

Tavington gratefully took his cue. "Thank you. If we desire independence, we must travel to at least the early fifteenth century, in my opinion. And there we find a different and equally knotty problem: an age of religious fanaticism and boundless superstition."

Diana gently objected. "The Middle Ages are often unfairly regarded as a time of ignorance and persecution. Really, the seventeenth century was much more violent."

Tavington gave her a quelling look and shook his head. "Nonetheless, I believe that none of us wishes to deal with heresy accusations, or the idea that we are devils. Nor do I personally want to find myself, even tenuously, under the authority of the Bishop of Rome. It is my own opinion that we could do the most good, and influence the future most benignly, in the second century of the Christian era. The Roman Empire was at its most enlightened. Some trading and scholarly contact with the Empire could be established. We could set an example of a technologically advanced, non-slaveholding culture, which could cause them to question their own beliefs. If we were on an island like Madeira, the Romans would not know how to find us in order to assimilate us politically; but we could become known throughout the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, without the source of our superior knowledge being common knowledge.

"We could, of course, share our insights with enlightened individuals of the period, and there were many. I had rather try to convince Marcus Aurelius of the dangers of the future than any Hanoverian monarch. Our opportunities for study, as residents of the period travelling conventionally, would be extraordinary. But a safe abode in the ancient past has yet another advantage. I shall refer briefly to it, and then direct further questions to Dr Kolb.

"He has disclosed to me that while returning to the future after changing the past may be hazardous, it is comparatively safe to foray into the future from the past. In short, were we to base ourselves in 146 A.D., say, we could travel to future dates, making adjustments, or intervening in unfortunate events as we see fit. We would be far safer there. As we move closer to our own period, the possibility arises of—what was it, Doctor?"

Kolb spoke up. "Molecular disassociation. Colonel Tavington would be at risk of pretty much dissolving if he attempted to return to a 1781 that had been radically changed or confronted himself within a certain radius. And we would be at risk coming back here once we've really altered the past century. But further back we're reasonably safe. We can't ever know how much we've changed our own time. We can change it and not know it, or know it and not change it. I won't get into the quantum physics of it."

"Thank God," Mark murmured. Lisa smiled discreetly.

"The uncertainty principle. Heissenberg." An engineer shrugged.

"Thus," purred Tavington in his most persuasive tones, "we would have an excellent opportunity to turn centuries of brutish ignorance towards modern rationality. And the language would not be a significant problem, since any educated man knows Latin."

Heads snapped up. Diana winced, but said nothing. The engineers' mouths hung open.

"Actually," Michael remarked as tactfully as possible. "Knowledge of the classics is not as universal in this period as it was in your own time. Some of us know some Latin—some more than others. But some of our people--"

"Not a word," confessed Rocky, without a trace of embarrassment.

Tavington, brought up short, tried not to sneer. He supposed it was impossible to be an expert in everything. He, after all, had no idea what "quantum physics" was.

Diana softened the blow. "But some of us do. I read it well, though I would have to work on speaking it. Alan is a superb classicist, with good Greek as well as Latin. A number of us have at least a foundation or a smattering. It is something that could be offered as course of study. Wherever we went, there would be things we would have to learn about a culture. And many of our people will never leave the safety of the island, anyway."

Tavington smiled at her in satisfaction. "Very true. It will be the task of the history department to determine a date that might be the most advantageous, and to create a course of study that would present the nature of the period to the project staff as a whole."

Justin Lakiotis, the biology head, thumped the table in his eagerness to be heard. "As soon as we have a date, we need to get going on a survey." He bounced a little in his chair. Tavington thought he looked a little young for so much responsibility, besides wearing a style of hairdressing very like a wild Red Indian; with the sides of his head shaved, and a crest of hair standing straight up in the middle. He wore a single gold earring, and altogether looked not at all the thing, but he seemed earnest enough about his work.

"Are you volunteering to do the Drop?" asked Michael, brows raised. He saw Tavington's curiosity, and explained. "We can't just open a gate and send our people through—especially hundreds of years in the past. For something like this, we look at current ground levels, and then open a gate a few feet higher and send out a jumper—a scout. We don't want a time traveler to drown or be encased in solid rock, or trap them in the walls of a building. We use a pressurized bubble and protective gear which will deflect the jumper away from smaller objects like animals or trees. Once on the ground, the jumper makes a careful measurement of the gate area, and we can adjust it so the next travelers get through smoothly."

Justin broke in, "Yes, I do want to make the jump, thank you very much." He turned excitedly to Tavington. "Once I get through and mark out a permanent gate area, we'll send out a full survey team to do an ecological workup. Jenny's right: we'll want Jack. We should also call in Lesley Urquhart for a marine study. She's a cracking good sailor, too. It would be great if we could get one of the boats out of storage and go all the way around the island by sea."

Tavington was feeling quite pleased at the practical direction the meeting was moving in. So far people had no major objections to his proposal, and were thinking about ways to make it succeed. "How many would go in all?"

Michael ticked off the names. "Well, I'll need to go. I've run most of these surveys in the past. Then Justin obviously, to make the jump and then get a handle on the fauna. Jennifer for botany. Jack and Lesley, if we can get them. Mark, would you be willing to be the medic?"

Mark gave a nod. "I'll feel better, though, if we can find another doctor and get our nursing and medtech people back. The kind of staff we're talking about needs adequate health support. I'm also going to be busy stocking up for a move like this. We won't be able to make a lot of pharmaceuticals we take for granted. Let's get Luthien and Taylor back too. We'll want good dental care."

Michael was making notes of his own. "If we can clear a flat space, we can get out the chopper and do an aerial survey."

"Chopper?"

"A helicopter," said Michael. "A flying machine that rises straight up from the ground and lands the same way. It doesn't need a long landing field the way airplanes do."

Tavington thrilled with terror and excitement. _A flying machine!_ With what he fondly imagined was admirable nonchalance, Tavington asked, "And how many men can such a machine carry?"

Michael smirked, understanding him perfectly. "We can cram a few more, if we don't carry a lot of gear. Want to go for a ride, Colonel?"

Diana looked alarmed. Tavington did not meet her gaze. "Yes, I would. In fact, I think it important that I be part of this survey."

Not only Diana was alarmed. Lisa protested, "But the Boss never went on an initial survey. A leader is much too valuable to risk on that kind of—"

"Thank you, Lisa, for your concern," Tavington stopped her objections with a reassuring smile. "But I believe it important for the staff to perceive that I will ask nothing of anyone that I am not willing to risk myself. Further, I will administer this venture far more ably if I have the clearest possible understanding of our situation. I _will_ go. Who else?"

"I'm Doug Horn, Colonel," said one of the engineers. "I'll be going to map out a number of gates. We can't send the same people through the same gates at the same time. They'd meet themselves coming and it might cause the end of the universe as we know it."

Tavington raised his brows ever so slightly. "Indeed?"

"So we stagger the gates and times, and keep careful track of who is where and when. Come to think of it, we usually have Penny along to document everything."

Lisa murmured from her corner. "Penny is in Saskatchewan. I think I can get her here, but we might have to take her mother and nephew too. He's only nine."

"What about it, Colonel?" asked Rocky Kolb. "What's the policy about families?"

Tavington was longing for a cup of tea. He did not want to disrupt the meeting by asking Lisa to fetch some, but he had never been in such a long meeting in civilized quarters without any sort of refreshment. His throat was getting dry, and he glanced furtively at the clock.

Families. Oh, yes.

"While it will present difficulties in the initial victualing, I believe that the greater number of people who bring families, the greater stability and satisfaction. A balance of old and young will make the community more home-like. We will have to consider these situations individually, but if we can make certain that foodstuffs and accommodations are sufficient, we can start recalling the families of those already in residence, and then of each recalled staff member in turn." He turned to Lisa. "Can you provide me with a list of current staff members with family?"

"No problem," Lisa beamed, and bustled from the room. Tavington saw that she was becoming more comfortable with him. He was not threatening to supplant her, or reduce her authority. She was still the administrator's secretary, and as such would have considerable influence and responsibility.

Rocky was obviously extremely happy. It showed in his voice as he went back to planning. "Once we have the survey and the proposal fully developed," he pointed out, "we can present it to the staff as a whole for a vote."

"A vote?" Tavington asked faintly.

"Oh, sure! We'll want to make sure that everyone is on board. This is a huge, life-changing deal for everyone. We can't just order people to go live two thousand years in the past on a remote island."

Lyudmilla frowned. The lines in her forehead made the shape of a Y. Tavington had never seen anything like it, and stopped staring with an effort. The sociologist spoke. "And what are we going to do about the ones who don't want to make the move? There will be those who will refuse. And who might talk. If word of this were to get out, the Central Committee will be on us so fast we won't know what hit us."

The staff members looked a little frightened. Diana bit her lip. Michael gave a wry laugh.

"I think we had better keep the staff incommunicado for the next few months. There's nothing unusual in that. There's always been a confidentiality agreement in the contracts. When the time comes, we'll give everyone who doesn't want to go the opportunity to leave. But not until just before we open the gate. If we lose some essential people, we might have to replace them, but I don't think we will. Nobody in this project has ever been bothered by the consequences of interfering with time."

"Except Marianne," sighed Diana.

"Well, yes. Marianne." Michael wondered aloud, "Does anybody know where she is?"

"I think I could find her." Diana told Tavington, "Another historian. One who butted heads once too often with Mr. Walford. She ended up in a factory posting in New Kowloon. She might be willing to come back now that he's gone. And she's very adventurous. She spent seven months in Russia in 1812." She smiled at Tavington, "And her Latin is sound."

"Call her in." Tavington directed. He was quite pleased with the large number of women who were going. It was most desirable that there be more women than men. The reverse would be certain to cause unrest.

Lisa returned, with a tray laden with a variety of drinks. There was tea for Tavington. At that moment, he knew that Lisa would prove invaluable.

There was one more issue he wanted to deal with immediately.

"It may be," he remarked, "that we will have need of at least a small military force. If we travel by conventional means in the past, we will want guards. I need men I trust for this duty."

Diana looked as if she was beginning to realize what he was asking. Everyone else simply looked befuddled.

He really, really wanted this. He would have to insist. "You brought me forward. In my time, I know where to find at least half a dozen good men."

Lyudmilla protested first. "We can't simply pluck people at random from the past. That would put us all in danger—"

Tavington raised his voice slightly. "You could bring me forward because I was considered dead. This would be the same situation." He stood and leaned on the table. "There was an unfortunate skirmish in which I lost a number of my dragoons. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I had to ride for help and leave the dying and wounded behind. By the time aid reached them, they were either lying dead or their bodies had been dragged away by wild beasts. No one will notice if they are brought here instead." He sipped his tea, and the brew soothed a throat unused to such long speech-making. "We might also find recruits among those left for dead at King's Mountain. I would choose the best, the loyalest, the most intelligent. They would prove invaluable, not only as the core of an island guard, but as men with good general knowledge of agriculture, husbandry, and many crafts. Admittedly you have many artisans from your former staff to draw upon, but I believe our small community will need men who are not scholars or specialists, but farmers and soldiers at need."

Mark was thoughtful. "It would be quite a project. _You _were quite a project."

Tavington was ready with a reply. "I know the time, the date, the exact location of the skirmish—"

Michael shook his head, "But you can't come with us. It's very tricky being in two places in the same time. If we do this, you'll have to carefully describe the men, and then some of us will have to go in for retrieval. And what about the fellows on the other side?"  
"Do you really want to start the Rebellion all over again? Besides, I don't really know exactly what happened to the rebels anyway. As far as I could see, they were also dead or dying, but I can't be certain. At any rate, there would be no one to prevent you, and any strange stories would be discounted as the ravings of the injured."

"Point taken. We can't absorb a large number, though. They'll have to be oriented, and some of them might not be as adaptable as you are."

"If the choice is between joining the Aurora Project or being dead, I think I know what they would elect." He turned to Diana. "I would like you, Diana, to help me organize this. The sooner the men are retrieved, the sooner they can be made fit for duty."

She was thoughtful, but not rejecting the notion outright. "I can work on a draft proposal. We'll make a list of the men at the skirmish, with descriptions, and if with Doug's help—" she indicated the earnest engineer—"we might be able to devise something acceptable. King's Mountain may be something else again. It's terribly well documented and there were so many soldiers of both sides milling about we might not be able to get in and out safely. We'll give it a try."

No one was loudly denouncing his idea, though the staff members were somewhat apprehensive. Tavington needed those men. He felt guilty about their fates. He had unwisely divided his force that day; he had been distracted—and his men had paid for his lapse with their lives. He needed Bordon. A friend as well as loyal subordinate, Bordon was a well-educated man and would be an invaluable adviser and support. Tavington had made some friends here in the future, but they were from a culture alien to him. Diana, as dear and learned as she was, was still a woman, and he could not tell all his mind to her.

Yes, he would find a way to save Bordon.Bordon, certainly,and his excellent Sergeant McKenzie. A good sergeant was always worth his weight in gold. Some of the men would not be acceptable here. Tate and Riordan had been drunken brawlers and would not be worth the trouble: but Leslie, Locke, and Thurlow were good lads, and would do as they were told. They always had.

He understood Diana's reservations about the disaster at King's Mountain, but he wanted to save some of the men, if possible. Most of all he wanted to show Pattie Ferguson this extraordinary place. Ferguson's death, however, had been witnessed by many. He had been shot very conspicuously from his horse. Equally public had been Chris Huck's death back in July. Tavington was determined to do what he could, but he must tread carefully, or the Aurora project staff would balk, and everything would grind to halt amidst fears and recriminations.

Thinking of Ferguson and his horse reminded Tavington about the need for livestock. He attention returned to the meeting, and a list was made of the first people to recall—the agronomist Gronewald, the marine biologist Leslie Urquhart, Marianne the historian, Lisa's administrative staff, and at Tavington's own insistence, the veterinarian, farrier, and the two specialists in animal husbandry. Lisa would also pull the family files, and consult with staff members about relations who might be of value, or at least wish to join the venture. Research assistants, gardeners, seamstresses, and all the others would come back in due course. It must all be done with some discretion, though, to avoid attracting the attention of the authorities.

Justin, still full of excitement, had a new thought. "What are we going to name the new operation? The Madeira Project?"

Rocky laughed. "We don't even have to call the island that. The Portuguese will never name it. Maybe the island itself should have a new name."

The staff engaged in a new debate. Classical allusions suggested the Hesperides, or the Fortunate Isles. Or—

"Atlantis," blurted Herb Schultz. Everyone looked, and he smiled sheepishly, "Or New Atlantis, at least. It should really freak out the Romans."

New Atlantis. It sounded well. It sounded _very _well.

* * *

**Next: Part IV.** Tavington flies over his new domain, and is reunited with old friends. The Aurora Project prepares to face its future in the past. 


	13. The Door Into Time, Part 4

Disclaimer: The makers of the film _The Patriot_ own Colonel Tavington. I own the rest.

Genre: romance/time travel. Tavington sees New Atlantis from the air, and is reunited with old friends. 

Episode 9: The Door Into Time

Part IV 

Cautiously, by ones and twos, the former staff members of the Aurora Project began returning to the sprawling, utilitarian laboratory in the desert waste of North Dakota. It was important that they not attract the attention of the authorities, who might have noticed a sudden increase of the number of travelers to the area. Instead, time gates were opened in various localities: time gates that moved the reenlisted colleagues only a few minutes in time, but often vast distances in space. Diana told him that was the use for which the technology had originally been created—a way to ship cargo and personnel all over the world nearly instantaneously, without the use of the "fossil" fuels that had poisoned the planet.

Everyone was tremendously busy: Tavington as much as anyone else. There were lengthy meetings. There was much coordination of activity to be managed. And he had a great deal to learn. The broad desk in his handsome new office was piled high with books. He needed a good basic grasp of this time's capabilities. He called Michael and Rocky and even Alan into his office to listen to their abstracts of history, science, and technology. Occasionally he had to stop them and demand explanations when they skipped some essential fact, an implicit part of their world, the lack of which made their explanations incomprehensible.

Never to be forgotten was the day Dieter opened a hitherto unknown door, and Tavington was shown the armory. Five thousand years of lethal weapons were his for the taking. Exquisite bronze swords of Celtic design. A light Egyptian chariot. Crossbows, arquebuses, and matchlocks. Extraordinary, overwhelming modern weapons, capable of firing thousands of rounds a minute. Vast stockpiles of ammunition. Rockets that fired missiles that could destroy a building or a ship. Weapons that threw flame, electrical shocks, exploding bullets. Weapons that made him faintly queasy. Combat with edged weapons had always been a brutal and bloody business, but the idea of poisoned gas that burned a man blind, deaf, and coughing up his lungs seemed unnatural and even demonic. There were some other things he liked. Some magnificent swords, imported decades ago from Japan; some armor that was proof even against the firepower of this new world. It was lighter than metal, made of a material Dieter called "superkevlar."

Dieter lifted out a cuirass of the strange, dark-grey material, and offered it to Tavington, growling in his heavy German accent. "Here. It's good stuff. You try it."

Armor had been out of fashion in his own time, and Tavington eyed the "flak-vest" doubtfully. With a snort, Dieter took the armor to a padded alcove and arranged it on a stand. He strolled over to a cabinet and lifted out a curious sort of pistol. "Stand over there," Dieter directed, motioning Tavington to the side

In one movement, he turned and fired a burst straight at the armor. The rapid fire was deafening in the enclosed space. Sparks exploded as the bullets ricocheted away into dim corners. The echoes died, and Dieter turned a smug smile on Tavington, who approached the armor with wonder. It was unmarred.

"Good stuff," repeated Dieter.

Tavington wasted no time fitting himself out with some of this amazing "stuff." He and Dieter played in the armory for hours. In the end, he emerged, glowing like a child at Christmas, clad in his 21st century cuirass, helmet, and greave-like leg protectors. He had selected a magnificent katana to carry, and a pair of Ruger .357 magnum revolvers in "stainless" steel with ivory grips. A selection of splendid commando knives, a stun gun, and a can of Mace completed his armament. For now. He also had his eye on the pair of Purdy shotguns. Someday he would have the opportunity to shoot game again. Dieter had agreed to become a fencing partner, and also to teach him some of the exotic Eastern arts of combat. He was especially interested in something called "kendo." That was a wonderful afternoon. Diana had been wide-eyed at his appearance. _Impressed, yes; startled, certainly; intimidated, perhaps just a little…_

He visited the returned seamstresses, happily at work again in their sewing room, and placed an order with them. He had not objected to the comfortable green trousers, tucked into the tops of comfortable modern boots. He had not objected to the soft, tunic-like shirts. But the shapeless white "lab coat" was ridiculous. Instead, Kathleen and Caitlin fashioned for him a short uniform jacket in light scarlet wool, very like his own Dragoon jacket, and exceedingly stylish and becoming. It was faced with green and splendid with gold lace. It made him stand out boldly amongst the others, but that was all to the good, for leaders should be instantly identifiable to their subordinates. Diana admired him in his new garb, and laughed at little at his "18th century sensibilities." He took it in good part, glad to feel more like himself. He had seen the "camouflage" that modern soldiers wore, and while he grasped the theory and saw its use in some situations, it would not do for him. Not now. This was his new role—the commander of the Aurora Project—and clad in his new garb, bright as a fighting cock, and decently armed, he at last made a creditable appearance.

At need, the new armor would fit well over his clothing. And as to the armor itself—as soon as the goldsmiths returned, he would see that his armor was adorned according to his rank. Some sort of insignia over the breast of the cuirass and something for the helmet…

Others were deeply involved with new projects as well. Alan, despite his original hostility, had embraced Tavington's plan with the ardor of the converted. He was a classicist, after all, and this was a dream come true. He was hard at work on ideas about diplomatic relations with the Romans, and what kind of new crops and trade goods would be most impressive and in demand. He had shown up to take part in the department committee meetings, and thought Diana very frivolous when she shrugged at his own suggestions and proposed they grow cocoa, instead.

"Everyone loves chocolate. The Romans will love it too. Give them chocolate and they'll love us as well. 'Confectioners to the Empire!' I can see it now…"

Jennifer smiled shyly. "I do have some cocoa trees. We may have to keep it all under glass, though. Preliminary studies show that we might be able to grow coffee and tea in the mountains, and of course wine grapes, but cocoa is a true tropical plant—"

"Give 'em tobacco!" quipped Michael, rather snidely. Tavington was about to agree that it was a very good idea. Tobacco was, after all, one of the great cash crops of the New World, but it was clear from the sardonic laughs and scandalized expressions that Michael was not serious.

He leaned over and whispered in Diana's ear, "What's wrong with tobacco?"

She whispered back, "It kills people. That's just the sort of thing we _don't_ want to introduce into our island."

"Really? Kills people? How?"

"It rots their lungs with emphysema and horrible cancers. It's just disgusting. It contributes to pollution. You can get your hand cut off for being caught smoking nowadays, or even if you're caught in possession of tobacco products." It was all said quite seriously, even a little primly, like a lesson learned by heart. Tavington grimaced, and changed the subject.

He was often taken aback at how different these peoples' principles were. Smoking tobacco was criminal, but for Diana to publicly acknowledge him as a lover did not even raise an eyebrow.

However, he found out that there were aspects of their relationship at which some of the staff would draw a line. After the meeting, he accompanied Diana to the clinic, hoping to catch Gretchen and have her deal with that annoying prophylactic implant. Gretchen also had been tremendously busy of late with the new arrivals, and somehow had not had time to see Diana. Tavington had the distinct impressions that she was avoiding them.

The clinic was a madhouse. It was now fully staffed again, bustling with activity. Diana saw an anxious mother, holding the hand of a pale, small boy whose skin showed an unhealthy grey tinge.

"Tracy!" Diana smiled and gave a wave as they passed. One the new doctors brought the mother a bottle of some medicine the child was to be given, with reassuring words and advice about diet. Diana called over her shoulder, "We'll talk soon!"

Gretchen was emerging from a consulting room, talking with a rail-thin woman. The woman gave a startlingly sardonic laugh in reply to something Gretchen had said. They turned and saw Tavington and Diana bearing down on them, and the two of them exchanged an inscrutable look. Gretchen gave Diana and Tavington a nod, and headed for the supply closet.

Diana said warmly, "I'm so glad you're back, Marianne. I hope you're all right—"

Marianne shrugged. "Nothing that Gretchen there can't put right. I believe this must be the Colonel." Her eyes raked over Tavington, missing nothing—not the modified uniform jacket, not the weapons, and plainly not the possessive way he draped his arm about Diana.

"Yes, indeed." Diana introduced them immediately. "Marianne, this is Colonel William Tavington. Will, this is Dr. Marianne McNeil, one of my colleagues."

Tavington felt a little wary at the woman's scrutiny. He bowed, nonetheless. "Marianne," he acknowledged, deciding to use the local custom of first names.

She inclined her head, with a slight smile. "William," she responded, "or rather Colonel, for I hear that's how most people are addressing you."

With an easy smile, he said, "William is my name, of course. 'Colonel' is useful in an official capacity. I certainly prefer to it 'Boss.'"

"I daresay." She gave him another keen look. "I look forward to learning more of the plan."

Diana laughed. "I'm sure you'll have plenty to say about it."

"Probably."

Gretchen returned with a handful of little green bottles, and as she passed Diana, whispered low, "No. I won't do it." She went to Marianne, and began handing her the vials. "Excuse me," she said to Tavington and Diana.

Diana pulled Tavington away, to givedoctor and patient some privacy.

"What did she mean, she won't do it?" Tavington asked in a low voice, feeling irritated.

"Will, darling, I have talked about this with her, and she's very reluctant—"

He thought he understood, and began to feel rather ashamed, and angry as well. "It is because we are not married, is it not? Well, that can be arranged."

Diana shook her head. "No, it can't. Not here. It takes tons of paperwork and a lot of money to wring a marriage license out of the government. You don't have any identification—and if you were caught—" She stopped, and swallowed.

_"What?"_ His voice had risen, and Gretchen and Marianne could no longer pretend their conversation was inaudible.

"Summary execution," supplied Marianne with wry helpfulness. "The minute a Central Committee agent did a retscan on you it would show you were an undocumented alien. That means summary execution. Very summary."

"On the spot," agreed Gretchen. She seemed very displeased with Tavington, and burst out, "And that would be a damned sight better than what would happen to Diana, if I removed the implant and she was caught with an unauthorized pregnancy!"

Marianne looked them over and huffed a faint, incredulous laugh.

"Tell me," snapped Tavington. _Why do these bloody people think I know all the horrible facts about their horrible world?_

Diana protested softly, "Don't. It does no good to dwell on it. We'll be out of here in a few months."

"I hope so," said Gretchen, obviously still ruffled. "I really hope so. And if—or when-- we're safely out of here I'll be glad to help you right away." She fixed Tavington with a glare. "For your information, if Diana were caught—and she would be—the child would be aborted, and then Diana would be forcibly and permanently sterilized and sentenced to hard labor _for life_ at a toxic waste camp."

Marianne added, with a hint of acid, "Not to worry, though. A life sentence only amounts to a year or two at most in a place like that."

It took a moment to digest this, and then Tavington looked accusingly at Diana. She had told him nothing of her danger. She only smiled calmly, and squeezed his arm.

"It doesn't matter. You're going to get us out of here, and then none of this will matter anymore to any of us."

"Yes," he replied, putting his arm around her and pulling her close. "I _will_ get us out of here. And sooner rather than later!"

* * *

Justin had made the Drop. They had sent him to the area where the port city of Santa Cruz had stood in their own time. He was back; it had gone well; he had leveled a spot for the helicopter; he had measured a place for a larger timegate. They kept the small gate open in the meantime as a navigation tool. He had a few bruises, but nothing of consequence. He gabbled on and on about the island. He had been dropped near the south coast and had walked to the shore. It was glorious—just beautiful—and he was nearly drunk with delight. 

The next day, the team was ready to go through the new, larger gate. Tavington had planned a two days' survey for the scientists to assess the place, and the engineers to start making the necessary measurement for the moving of the project compound. They would have to design a new foundation, and bring in the labor that Walford had previously hired. Doug explained to Tavington how that was done.

"We'll put them as far back in the past as we need to have the buildings ready for the date chosen. The crew won't even know that they're in the past. Most construction teams are routinely gated to the work sites on a daily basis. We've got to find a good water source and construct water mains and deal with waste disposal. We'll get some of them building a wind farm and setting up the bases for our solar panels to generate energy."

The team gathered, and took the elevator to the cavernous gate chamber. The heliocopter, which Tavington thought resembled nothing so much as a monstrous dragonfly, was already there, as well as their other equipment. Tavington prepared himself for the eerie blue light, and stood impassively as a sensation of extreme cold and utter darkness swept over him.

And nearly instantaneously, he was standing on mossy earth, lulled by a pleasant warm breeze full of the scent of flowers. He heard the crashing of waves, and looked out to see the ocean rolling before them. Birds wheeled above, uttering high sharp cries, and Tavington turned his head to relish the feel of the sun on his face at last.

Around him the team members uttered a collective gasp. Lyudmilla fell to her knees. Diana had tears in her eyes, and clutched convulsively at his arm.

The view was magnificent. There were the makings of an excellent harbor, and a rim of white beach further on. Around them, forested hills ascended to the central mountains of the island. Tavington had ridden up into the mountains during his stay here back in the 18th century. It was strange to see the place utterly devoid of human habitation.

Some of the team set up a base camp. A few others would go in the helicopter to make an aerial survey. Michael was their pilot, and with him went Tavington as well as Diana, Mark, Doug, Jennifer, Lyudmilla, Justin, and Jack Gronewald, who had arrived only three days before. He had barely had a handshake from Tavington, before being informed of their interest in the Madeira Islands. Tavington was gratified to find out thatJack had spent the short time before time traveling amassing a tremendous amount of information on their destination. They had maps from their own time; they had cameras. They would cross the island lengthwise, and return, dipping down to the south harbor of the non-existent Funchal. The helicopter would be refueled back at their base. Tomorrow they would visit the smaller island of Porto Santo, to be renamed at some future date.

The noise in the helicopter was terrific. One had to shout in people's ears to be heard. But as they swung away from the earth, leaving the ground below, Tavington was less alarmed than he had feared, and more elated.Flight was not at all like he had imagined it would be.This was loud, brash, masculine, and dynamic. He could feel the vibration of the engine through his boots and through the seat. Birds were left far behind. The helicopter could circle and hover when the team saw an interesting feature. Doug and Diana were taking endless pictures. The scientists screamed observations at one another, their hands waving.

Below them, lush, green and inviting, lay their future home. As they settled back onto the ground, it was all Tavington could not to scream with excitement himself, or babble like Justin and Lyudmilla. He remained in control with an effort, eating the excellent meal that Summer, their returned dietician, had prepared, as the others laughed and chattered. He finished, and waited impatiently for Diana to stop playing with her pudding. At last she was done, and he hurried her to their tent for half an hour's respite.

Diana had plainly never made love in a tent before. She whispered anxiously, "They'll hear everything we do!"

"Not if we're quiet about it," Tavington reassured her, struggling to get her boots and pants removed. He didn't care if they heard: he didn't care what they thought. Finally a pants' leg came free. Without waiting for the other, Tavington threw their sleeping bag to the ground and pinned Diana on it. She struggled a little, laughing while she tried to get the other boot off. The wadded pants flapped with her every move. "Forget it," he hissed urgently.

"Wait," she objected, pushing him up a little so she could slip her shirt over her head, and then her scanty upper undergarment. He threw off his own shirt and their naked skins pressed warmly together; very pleasant, very agreeable. He slid down, mouthing a lovely breast, while she muffled her cries with a corner of the sleeping bag. Tasting, probing, he was blissfully at home within minutes, and smiled as he discovered that Diana really did not care who knew how happy he made her. The thought crossed his mind that they were the first lovers in their new homeland. And then he was swept away in the torrent himself, and for the moment, thought no more.

* * *

The entire project staff was electrified by the reports from the island. Working long hours, Tavington was enchanted when the engineering staff submitted their plan for the settlement. They would get a team in right away, gated from one of the huge labor camps, to clear ground and set up wind and solar power bases. Next they would build foundations for the buildings, the streets and the water, electrical, and sewer systems. The Laboratory itself was essential, but they had actually planned a handsome little town as well, including a dock area. One of the engineers explained that most of these buildings too, would simply be gated in over new foundations. With luck, good weather, and double shifts, it could all be done in three months. 

Walford's holdings were vast: they had a large selection of buildings to draw upon: an empty villa he owned in Tuscany—a church here, a school there, the auditorium of defunct college—all made unusable in their current sites by social chaos and drought. There were plans as well for "prefabricated" housing and shops as well. They would build the foundations and assemble the parts that would be made elsewhere. Tavington approved of the housing: handsome rows of buildings, each building with three floors and two apartments per floor, built around a small courtyard. They could be assembled quickly, and to Tavington's eye looked luxurious, despite the uniformity. Each apartment contained a large sitting room, three small bedrooms, an efficient kitchen, and a private bathroom. They would also assemble long strips of shops and offices. Tavington was particularly pleased at the design of the town, with a decent-sized square in the center. The plan showed a large fountain and a statue as well.

He asked, "More of Walford's hoard?"

Zachary, the civil engineer, gave a little abashed smile. "I'm from Cincinnati. When the city government collapsed, Walford grabbed some major landmarks in exchange for a bailout. You'll like the fountain. It's called the 'The Genius of the Waters.' As for the statue, you and the committee can choose. Lisa has a huge catalogue of Walford's art collection. A bronze would be best for outdoors, of course." Tavington planned on taking more than a few.

In a few more days, the marine biologist and experienced navigator Lesley Urquhart had made her way back to the project. She brought a young cousin and a pair of friends with her. As soon as the work crews got the docks finished, the yachts would be gated there, and she would take Tavington and his command group on a circumnavigation of New Atlantis.

Jennifer and Jack came to him with their own exciting ideas.

"There's no reason to have to do everything after the final jump. We could go back in time another five or ten years and get some orchards and vineyards started. Give us a workcrew, and we'll clear some land for them and for some farmland too."

Jack said, "The Portuguese burned off most of the island originally. We don't have to do anything so drastic. We'll get the trees and vines planted and then do a series of gates to visit them periodically. We can have mature plantations by the time we actually all live there."

Tavington was impressed. "Do it."

The plans were moving along at dizzying speed. Tavington wanted to move along now on his own pet project. With the clinic fully staffed, they would be able to deal with some casualties of war.

Keith made the initial Drop, and found the skirmish in progress in faraway 1781. He carefully clocked the time from Tavington's departure to the moment a rider appeared in the distance, moving toward them. They had less than half an hour to deal with the situation.

"It was hard to watch," Keith told the committee. He looked rather sick. "It's horrible to see something like that and not try to help." He looked down the conference table to Tavington. "You do know that that one young rebel looked like he was going to scalp you."

Tavington twitched a faint smile. "I wouldn't be surprised, considering his family. His father made his name mutilating Indians in the last war." He laughed contemptuously. "Luck, however, was with me, and I still have my hair. It seems to be that half an hour should be plenty of time to remove my men and all the horses."

"The horses?" asked a surprised Mark, but Michael nodded in understanding.

"Yes, of course!" Tavington replied tartly. "I want every one of those horses—my men's and the rebels' too. Some of them are excellent animals, and trained cavalry chargers are in rather short supply in the 21st century!"

"All right, then, the horses. Diego, Royce, and Cassandra will wrangle them through a separate gate to the vet's first thing. Meanwhile, I'll move people in for triage."

_"Triage?"_ Tavington hated it when these people used jargon unknown to him.

"A process to see who can be saved, and who needs treatment most urgently. We'll do our best for your people, but if they have brain damage or major spinal cord injuries, they're not salvageable."

Keith put in, "Most of the injuries are soft tissue, from bullets or edged weapons." He stole a furtive glance at Tavington.

_Oh, yes,_ remembered Tavington_, I used my pistol butt to bash a few heads in. Well, I'm not saving rebels anyway._ He was still annoyed at the committee's absolute insistence that he not take part in the rescue.

Well-planned as it was, the operation went smoothly. Tavington paced impatiently in the clinic's waiting room, eager to see his men again. All five he had requested had been brought through the gate, and were in deep, medicated sleep, while the surgeons performed their modern magic. Tavington was secretly in awe of this age's medical capabilities: give a doctor a chance and Death was left in the dust. He was allowed to see them briefly, through a window, and then went back to his own office, ordering the staff to contact him the moment any of the men awakened. They must not be left alone and bewildered in this strange new world.

Two days passed. Tavington heard endless reports: the little outpost on the smaller island, now named "Numenor" after some book Jennifer liked, was nearly complete. It was, after all, only a dock, a warehouse, a runway for airplanes, a large "hangar" with a workshop, a pair of barns, and a selection of vacant farmhouses collected from what was now the New Dustbowl. Jennifer was excited about Numenor, which was flat, fertile, and ready to be tilled and planted in legumes and silage, which would be plowed under to make the ground even more fertile. Before the final jump, they would go ahead and plant wheat and barley and some sugar cane. There were, in addition, several patches of citrus and olive orchards she had already established, for which she had high hopes. On Atlantis, she was also planting olives as well as pineapples, mango and bananas, and a multitude of other experiments. Tavington had insisted on the homely apple, pear and cherry as well.

She and Jack had another proposal, which Tavington thought odd but interesting.

"To the west of the greenhouse area in town, we want to clear a large field for garden plots. Not for us—we already have our experimental fields going—but for all the people. Tracy's giving gardening lessons to everyone who wants to learn. Allow a garden plot to anyone who wants one—just a quarter acre each or less. It will be a way for people to supplement their rations and have something to barter, and we'll see who does the most to deserve farms of their own. Cassandra hopes to do the same with livestock."

Tavington gave them the nod. It was astounding how much ground could be plowed, planted and harvested, using electrically powered farm equipment. There would not be enough for all: private farmers would have to make do with horse-drawn plows and horse-drawn mechanical reapers, which Tavington still found impressive. The equipment would more than make up for the lack of laborers, and did not require food after all. Nor did it cause other problems.

For a problem had arisen at the Atlantis construction site. Doug reported in late in the afternoon, saying curtly, "We've had four more runners."

"Find them."

Unless closely watched, some of the construction workers were disappearing,slipping away into the forests, and hiding when the time came to gate them away. When caught, it was always the same story: this mysterious place looked like paradise to them, and they did not want to go back to their crowded, stinking barracks in some polluted warren of a city.

There were not many runners, really; for so few people had experience of living off the land that it did not occur to them. Tavington had decided to have these men questioned: and if Lyudmilla thought them a good risk, to bring them and any family they had into the Project, with only the warning that once they came to live at the Project, they could never leave. They had recruited a score of good workers so far. A few of the runners had not been found.

Doug finished his report and left, and Lisa knocked at his open door, attracting his attention.

"What is it?"

"You wanted to know when your friends were conscious."

Tavington started up at once, and hastened through the halls toward the clinic.

Bordon had received a deep stab wound, certainly fatal in his own time: but here the surgeons had repaired the damage to his lung and liver, and transfused fresh blood into him. He was pale and weak, but clear-headed. His eyes shifted anxiously around the strange room, and then rested on Tavington with an expression of unutterable relief.

Tavington sat down on a chair by the bed, and spoke gently and earnestly to him. "Bordon, my dear fellow, listen to me. Something quite wonderful has happened. These friends of mine rescued you from the rebels, and you're going to live."

Bordon glanced over at Gretchen and a pair of nurses, standing watchfully by them. His eyes returned to Tavington. "Where am I? I would guess I'm not in South Carolina anymore."

Gretchen smothered a laugh, and smiled kindly.

Tavington leaned over him, and decided to tell him nothing but the truth. "We have been rescued by people from the distant future. I know it sounds mad, but they're very good people and want us to join them in an interesting adventure they've planned."

Bordon stared at the ceiling. "I died, didn't I? Is this some sort of afterlife?"

"No." Tavington saw Gretchen's impatient look, and knew she did not want him to tire her patient. "It's true you would have died if you had stayed where you fell. But they've saved you. We really are alive, and they need experienced soldiers. We can never return to the War and our own time—we would be dead there—but here we're quite alive and presented with a splendid opportunity. I'm going to see that you're well taken care of. You trust me, do you not?"

Bordon sighed, and gave a slight nod. "Yes, I trust you."

Tavington smiled slightly. "Good. Then trust these good ladies, who are certainly the finest physicians and sick nurses I have ever met. They literally work wonders. If they say you will be well, you _will_ be. I leave you to them, and when you're stronger, we'll talk more."

His subordinate's eyes closed, and Gretchen shooed him away, so Bordon could rest.

And so it went with his other four men. They were too weak to resist, and submitted to the ministrations of the medical staff. Tavington took time to talk with each of them.

The one suffering the most was his good Sergeant McKenzie. The man had been his orderly, and then promoted for his merit. McKenzie had a wife and children, and found the loss of them bitter. Tavington explained that there was no help for it:he had died inhis own time, andhe could not return. Gretchen assigned Marisol, a particularly gentle and compassionate nurse, to watch over him; for he was grieving as if his family, and not he himself, had died.

Tavington came down to take a meal with them once a day. Locke was recovering the quickest, and beginning to get about the place a little. A young student on Lyudmilla's staff, Peter Price, was assigned to the soldiers. Tavington felt they would respond better to a man than a woman, so Peter explained the strange world they were in: how to use the sanitary facilities; how to deal with women professionals. He also helped them cope when they were carted off to the dental clinic for examinations, and in some cases, major repair. Tavington winced sympathetically. The 21st century dentists were geniuses, and worked painlessly, but it was still not his favorite experience.

Next, they met Dieter. They were familiar with Germans from the army, and immediately recognized and respected his expertise. Tavington had decided to arm them with superior weapons, but not with things that were incomprehensible to them. They learned the principles of repeaters quickly, and with a good sword, a Winchester, and a pair of revolvers, they were far better armed than any 18th century soldiers in history.

Their new uniforms and weapons raised their spirits considerably. As they recovered, a number of the staff reached out to befriend them. The soldiers were cautious around women. Peter had made plain that none of these friendly and strangely dressed women were whores. With Diana they were especially respectful: McKenzie had been thunderstruck when he recognized her. From him, they had quickly learned of her relationship to Tavington and understood that she was as close a thing to a Colonel's lady as no matter.

Bordon was soon on his feet as well, and moved between Tavington's office and the soldiers' ward at the clinic. He was dealing with the disorientation fairly well, though occasionally he looked tired and harassed. He was an adaptable man, with very good manners. These manners stood him in good stead when he was well enough to attend a committee meeting. He listened, he took some notes, he asked questions. Surprisingly, he made a good friend of Alan, who had gone to the same college at Cambridge as he, though over two hundred years later.

It was at one of his daily meals in the ward, that Locke, who had adjusted more quickly than any of his fellows, began asking about their plans. Tavington told him the general outline: the people in this time had fouled their own nest beyond hope. They had the means to go to the past, where they would build a better and cleaner world than the one they left behind.

McKenzie pulled himself together enough to ask, "Is that why Miss Lindsey was in Charlestown, sir? Spying out the land, as it were?"

"That's a good way of putting it, Sergeant," Tavington agreed kindly. "These scientists here have been trying to find a way to change the past to avoid the terrible things that have happened. The world is so crowded and filthy that the very weather has gone wrong—it's getting hotter and hotter, and the whole place is turning into a desert. There's been cannibalism and God-knows-what. It's no surprise that they want to leave and start fresh somewhere else."

Locke grinned. "Peter told us about how it's so crowded the poor women aren't even allowed to have children anymore. That's why they're working as clerks and doctors and all. I reckon that'll change if we go to this new place."

Leslie and Thurlow grinned as well. They thought the women who had tended them very pretty and kind, and they smelled better than any women they had ever met. As long as they behaved decently, Tavington saw no reason to warn them off any woman they fancied.

Locke was still thinking. "And so we're going to this Atlantis place, sir? What then? Are we going to have to fight with any natives there?" He licked his lips, and blurted out what was plainly on all their minds. "Are we going to get a bit of land?"

It pleased Tavington that he could give them answers they would like. "There are no natives on Atlantis. No people at all but us, so there will be plenty of land for everyone." Leslie and Locke threw each other quick, excited looks. Tavington went on, "Some of these people—the scholars and scientists--know a lot about plants and animals, but there aren't many experienced farmers among them. If you learn some of their new ways, there's no reason you can't do extremely well. And some of the people probably won't want land at all right away. They wouldn't know what to do with it. When they have some time, I'm going to have you meet with Dr. Gronewald and Dr. McCuiston. They can tell you what they've learned about settling a new territory. The people who built up America didn't do it right last time—they brought in some plants and animals that caused a lot of damage, and then they used some filthy machines that ruined the place. Everyone wants our new land to succeed, so I expect you to listen to what they have to say."

His men nodded gravely. Tavington thought they might listen to some of it. Justin had told him the amusing, if dire, tale of Australia and the rabbits. The men would see the point. After all, there was nothing so odd about not wearing out your land and resources. And the committee would have its collective eye on the process.

"It's possible," Tavington told them, "that we might travel for trade. In that case, you might need to go along to act as Marines. But it will probably be some time before that happens. For the most part, you're needed to train a few more soldiers, do a bit of farming, and help keep the peace."

They seemed largely satisfied. His men had been dispossessed of small farms, or never had owned land at all. They also seemed to remember the severity of their wounds, and were glad to be alive. McKenzie would need some careful handling, but surely Time would heal his heart.

Peter came to take the men to the game room for therapy and recreation. Tavington had seen a faintly quizzical expression on Bordon's face and asked him back to his office for a chat.

Lisa had tea for them. She certainly was proving a treasure. Bordon settled back carefully into the comfortable leather chair and sipped his tea thoughtfully. Tavington wondered what was on his mind.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes—quite all right," Bordon answered candidly. "Mind you, I have my moments of astonishment. We're sitting here in an office in a place called North Dakota in the 21st century. I confess I find that rather odd."

Tavington laughed, and set down his cup. "I'm sure you wouldn't rather be dead. That's the only other option. For me too."

"So Miss Lindsey persuaded her friends to save you, and you persuaded them to save us."

"Precisely."

"Do they understand, I wonder, what having us here might mean to them? Our times are so different, and our customs so different. Swinburne has been most kind in showing me their excellent library. They take for granted that we agree with them in all things, but it is clear to me that you, at least, do not."

Bordon always was perceptive. Tavington cocked his head, with a cool smile. "No, I do not. Unsurprising, of course. They are, for the most part, very good people. But their committee heads are philosophical idealists. It is important not to confuse reality with wishful thinking." 

"They are ardently opposed to slavery. That may ultimately cause some tension if we have dealings with Rome."

"Just so. I am no friend to slavery myself. It is a damned inefficient way to farm, and owning slaves appears to be irresistibly corrupting. However, it is one thing to set an example and another to trumpet one's unpopular views to a neighboring power."

"There are only six of us. However, your position as chief executive gives you an authority that trumps mere numbers."

"So far I have not had to lean on anyone very hard. They needed a leader and I needed a command. However, I do have a mission for them that they may not find agreeable. As you say, there are only six of us, and—"

Lisa called through the door. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Colonel, but Dr. Kolb would like a word. Should I tell him to come back later?"

"No, Lisa, send him in, and bring a cup for him." He turned to Bordon. "Kolb was at the meeting: the head of the physics department, and a decent fellow—"

The door opened, and Rocky Kolb entered, smiling broadly. "I just stopped by to thank you again, Colonel. My family arrived today and they're getting settled. This means all the world to me, and I had to tell you how much I appreciate what you've done."

"Sit down, sit down, Kolb. Bordon, you remember Dr. Kolb: Kolb, I don't know if you've had a chance to become acquainted with my friend, Captain Bordon."

The men shook hands, and Lisa came in to bring Rocky his tea. "With one sugar," she said.

"Thanks, that's right." He laughed. "I may just get used to tea about the time we run out of it."

"We may not," Tavington told him, "Jennifer thinks we can grow one or two varieties. It's simply not very high on her list yet. Please convey my respects to your wife. I hope she and your child are well?"

"Not particularly, but they'll mend. As soon as family housing is ready, I think I may move them to Atlantis. The boy could use some fresh air."

Bordon was pensive, and bit his lip. Finally, he spoke. "Dr. Kolb, I confess myself puzzled by the paradoxes of time."

Kolb laughed. "You and me both!"

Bordon persisted. "No, really. You all talk about the dangers of changing the past, and yet we have already done it, for we have a base on New Atlantis, and yet are all still here. How can this be?"

Tavington stared, nonplussed. He glanced at Kolb, hoping for an answer he could understand.

"You're right," said Kolb with a lift of his eyebrows. "We have already changed time. We just may not have changed _this_ timeline."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there is a theory that there are multiple universe—multiple timelines. This theory became more believable to me after the departure of Sam Walford, our former boss. Here was a powerful man—a fantastically wealthy man, who set himself up in luxury in the mid-19th century. Now I knew—and disliked—Sam Walford, and I'm telling you that there is no way in the world he would have respected the sanctity of the past. In fact, I believe he wasted no time warping that timeline to suit himself—using his knowledge of the past to speculate in stocks and real estate, amassing new wealth and power. So, I wondered, why haven't we heard of Sam Walford? Why isn't he in our history books?"

Tavington and Bordon knew a rhetorical question when they heard one, and waited for Kolb to answer himself.

"I believe the minute he left this time and moved into the past and began changing it, he slipped sideways into an alternate timeline, or created a new one outright. He can never return to this time, for it no longer exists in his universe. Our other time-travelers, making every effort not to change things themselves, never lost the ability to return here. The fact that they didn't change anything material _in the time they visited_ seems to have made the difference.

"We've been keeping gates open continually since the first jump, overlapping them and using different ones: but there has been a link of some sort between our time and Atlantis from the first. If we were to close all the gates, we might lose the Atlantis we've created, and the people there now would not be able to find us in the future. As long as at least one of the gates remains open, we can still find our way to this time. And we can find the past we've begun to build."

Tavington took a deep breath. "So you're saying that when we move the laboratory, and the last gate is closed, we can never travel to this time again?"

"Yes, and you would probably dissolve if you managed it, because you couldn't exist in this time. More likely, though, a time gate would take you to the future our new time line has created, which wouldn't be at all like this one."

"My head hurts," Bordon groaned. "Let us, therefore, not close all the gates until we're sure we have everything neatly packed and ready in our Time Ark."

"No, indeed," agreed Tavington. "And while you are here, Kolb, I would like to ask you your opinion of another jaunt into the past I want the staff to make..."

* * *

**Next: The Door Into Time,** last chapter: A final foray is made into the more recent past, and unwelcome visitors arrive on the scene. 


	14. The Door Into Time, Part 5

Disclaimer: The makers of the film _The Patriot_ own Colonel Tavington. I own the rest.

Please excuse the prior appearance of this chapter if you found it incomprehensible. I think it was hacked.

Genre: romance/time travel. The building of New Atlantis continues apace. Final forays are made into the recent past, and unwelcome visitors arrive on the scene.

Episode 9: The Door Into Time

Part V 

"Oh, crap. A head shot."

"Can't be saved. Look down there in the bottom left. What do you think?"  
The images on the screen shouted, dashed about, and fell bleeding. A team of doctors, engineers, and historians watched the unfolding scene, making notes and diagrams. Tavington had asked the staff to rescue some of his comrades from King's Mountain, and they had thrown themselves into the task with the kind of enthusiasm he only had seen at horse races and boxing matches.

_"Ohhh!" _There was a collective groan as a volley roared out and men were blown from their horses.

"A lot of smoke. We can do something with that. Maybe toss a little something of our own in there, and while they've got their heads down, we can move a few with some flash gates—"

"That'll bring in a lot of filth as well."

"--And we'll have to place them right on the gurneys. It's tricky."

"I just don't see any other way to do it. _Jesus!"_

Alan Swinburne, stewing angrily in his corner, spoke up. "I would like to say for the record that I think this entire operation is a terrible idea. We're meddling with history is a dangerously direct way, and no one knows what will come of it. You're all so eager to show you _can_ do it, you're not stopping to think if you _should_."

"Relax, Alan. They won't even know what's happened. Hey! Look at that!"

Tavington sat at the other end of the darkened room, absolutely appalled. It was one thing to face the terror of battle oneself, and quite another to sit impotently by, watching these flickering images of men he knew. It was gruesomely theatrical, like one of the Romans' gladiatorial spectacles. Diana, contrary to his expressed wishes, was there, helping plan the operation. Gretchen was there as well, but she, after all, was a doctor and presumably inured to the sight of ravaged human flesh and bone.

Keith had visited King's Mountain a few days before the battle. He had positioned tiny cameras about the site, and had recorded the entire horrible debacle. Tavington could hardly complain. He had asked the team to do what they could to salvage some of the soldiers, and they were all watching the events over and over, dissecting it by seconds, planning to extract a few men as unobtrusively as possible.

The angle changed again. Dieter grunted, "That's a shame." A pretty, red-haired young woman had been shot, and crumpled awkwardly to the ground. Her eyes stared wildly, and her mouth, open as if to scream, dripped viscous blood onto the bodice of her gown. Tavington forced himself to watch. He knew the girl. It was Sally, Ferguson's mistress, and her cousin Polly was running up. He could hear her shrieks faintly, muffled by the gunfire and shouts.

Diana touched his hand. He took her hand in his, and kept his face impassive.

It took hours. Every minute of them was torture. At last the bestial horde was moving off, leaving helpless wounded Loyalists to die by inches. The engineers chattered more cheerfully now, finding easier subjects for rescue. Mark, Gretchen and the other doctors gave prognoses for the wounded men, deciding who could live and recover and who could not. Tavington restrained himself from cracking a few heads together. These were not experimental subjects: these were his _friends._

Diana leaned over and whispered softly. "You don't have to stay any longer. Let's leave this to the specialists. You've identified quite a few of the people, and Keith, Alan, and Marianne can handle the historical aspects. Let's get out of here and go for a swim."

He stood, feeling rather wrung out. It seemed obscene to play happily in a swimming pool after seeing friends and fellow soldiers die, but Diana was right. Grief and horror were useless.These men had died long ago. He had been too late to save them three hundred years before, but now he had all the time in the world. With luck and the power of 21st century science, a few would survive.

He replied to her, loudly enough that everyone could hear him. "As long as they save Ferguson. That's not negotiable."

Even in the darkness, he could see the exasperated looks. As he and Diana left, he could hear sarcastic muttering. "Gee, why don't you ask us to do something _hard_?"

Marianne suggested, "Maybe if you gate him just before the bullets hit----"

"We can't. Not without taking the horse, too---"

"--Unless we do some pretty fancy micro-measurement for the gate—"

"--And the coat is so distinctive—"

Diana closed the door, and walked him away from the conference room. "Leave it to them," she repeated. "You have enough to do already."

-----

The town of New Atlantis was beginning to take shape. After some deliberation, they had decided to use the same site that the Portuguese had used for the city of Funchal. It had the best, deepest harbor, and it seemed wise to settle there from the first, looking south over the Atlantic. Tavington went through a gate later in the day to see the progress for himself. The square was unpaved, but the foundations for fountain and statues were complete. Around the square, foundations for buildings had been dug out, and the concrete poured into them was drying. The foundation for the laboratory, back and east of the square, was a huge project and had a special team assigned to it. It was deeper and far more complex than those for the other buildings.

In fact, the foundation for Walford's Italian villa was fairly large, but quite simple. The foundation was already dry there, and the villa would be gated in tomorrow. Tavington hoped to be able to find time to see it. They were ready for the school next, and then the church.

The church was a pretty building, complete with some very old and remarkable stained glass; and had caught Sam Walford's eye on a trip through Shropshire. Not even its noted history and architecture could rouse enough indignation to save it from the billionaire's rapacity. It had been bought, and then left abandoned until Walford were to decide what he might want to do with it. The pair of engineers who had gone out to measure it for gating had met the elderly former vicar, eyeing it wistfully through the ugly metal fencing. They had fallen into conversation, and the engineers had reported this development back to Tavington.

How startled the neighbors were one morning, to find that the church and vicarage were quite gone, and the vicar and his entire family with them. It was a nine-days' wonder (and perhaps a little longer), but it was the times, the villagers agreed. People and things simply went missing nowadays, and it was best not to make a fuss, lest they themselves disappear as well.

-----

There had been no time for the projected cruise through the archipelago. Captain Urquhart was too busy visiting the docks at Atlantis and at Numenor, and equipping her little flotilla to spend any time upon mere pleasure. She had wanted something larger than the pair of yachts stored at the compound, and persuaded Tavington and the advisory committee to purchase a quite wonderful three-masted schooner. The schooner was twice the size of the larger yacht, steel-hulled, and nearly new. Her lines were elegant, her sails a rich orange-red, and she was altogether a glorious vessel. Best of all, Urquhart and her young cousin Arwen could sail the schooner by themselves. The Project was short of sailors, or even of people who had a passing acquaintance with boats or fishing. Perhaps some of the staff or their teen-aged childrenmight be interested in learning a new trade. Nets and tackle were purchased and stored, and a few small sailboats and rowboats suitable for fishing were sent on to the Islands, along with the bigger vessels as soon as the docks were ready.

There were other issues as well. As the spouses and families of the staff had arrived, Tavington had been startled one morning to find a man emerging from Lisa's quarters. It was early morning—_very_ early morning—and the man, tall, greying, and fit—was perfectly unembarrassed. He saw Tavington's surprised expression, and merely grinned, waved, and said, "Hi!"

"Hi," Tavington responded faintly, still very surprised. He had thought Lisa a spinster. She certainly had an unattached air. Perhaps this was a brother?

The stranger then opened Lisa's door and called, "Honey! It's your boss!"

_Honey? Not a brother, it would seem._

The fellow stuck out a friendly hand, and Tavington was obliged to shake it.

"I'm Paul."

"I am William Tavington."

"Yeah, yeah. Lisa's told me all about you. Colonel Tavington, isn't it? Paul Seevers. I'm Lisa's ex. Well, I guess I'm her ex-ex, since we're together again. Anyway, I'm a lawyer, and if there's anything I can do to help--"

_Do? File suit, perhaps?_

"Thank you. I shall consider your offer."

Lisa bustled out then, looking very happy, glowing with a certain consciousness. _Her ex-ex? What does that mean?_

-----

"It means they were divorced, but have now reconciled."

He and Diana lay in bed that night, arms comfortably encircling one another, when he remembered to ask her about it.

"Oh. _Divorced?"_

"Don't be so shocked. Divorce is quite common. It's hard to marry, but easy to divorce."

"What a world."

"Yes, but a lawyer could be very useful—"

"Yes, I've already heard from Lyudmilla about the importance of a law code. I told her to meet with Seevers and get working on it. They can present it to the committee when they have something ready." A related issue crossed his mind, but he was already too relaxed to consider it. He drifted off to sleep, resolved to deal with it the very next day.

-----

The former Villa Porto, now the Town Hall (or as Michael Flynn sang it, "The Pal-ace of At-lan-tis") had come to rest on its new foundation with barely a sound. The light in the columned pronaos swung briefly on its chain, and then gradually was still, perfectly perpendicular to the earth.

An engineer smirked triumphantly as the villa appeared. "One Tuscan villa, coming up!"

"It's not from Tuscany, you dolt," Alan Swinburne muttered sourly. "It's from Vicenza in the Veneto. Bloody engineers."

Diana and Tavington simply smiled at each other, enchanted with the building.

Lovely, classical, and the butter-yellow of Italian sunshine, it was subjected to a thorough cleaning by Diana, her seamstress friends Caitlin and Kathleen, her musical friends Karen and Ron, and whomever else Diana could press into service for an hour or two. There was little labor to spare. Electricians and plumbers were in and out, connecting water and power. Summer spent a morning seeing that the kitchen was in working order and decently tidy. She set up a small commissary in a bright basement room for the staff who would someday live and work there.

Around it, the other buildings of the square, and then the rest of the town appeared, each filling an empty space in the blink of an eye. There was nothing, and then there was a building. Tavington marveled at it, and loved to watch it happening whenever he could make the time. A smoothly paved road was squeezed out by the big electrical machines, traveling from Fountain Square down to the docks.

He spent one entire week away from Atlantis, and returned to find that housing and strips of shops had grown like mushrooms in the night. There had been some more runners. He decided that security must be a new priority in the town site.

Behind the Town Hall, the housing for the soldiers was speedily erected. In the vast store of Walford's warehouses, furnishings were found, and shared out to the residents of the new town. The soldiers were more than pleased with their lodgings. The villa itself was already adequately and even grandly furnished, though Diana wanted to use her own precious family pieces in their rooms. Superfluous items were moved to the wings, and in no time Bordon was installed in his own pleasant quarters. The stables and horses were moved next. Tavington wanted Bordon and the Dragoons to take up the task of patrolling the town and its environs, and catching the runners who had eluded them thus far. Then too, they (and certainly the horses) would be happier in the sun and sweet air of the Island. The Laboratory was no fit place for any creature of the 18th century.

His men were doing fairly well. Locke had even found himself a girl: one of the clerks in Lisa's office. Tavington decided the girl could be sent to the Town Hall to begin setting up the offices there.

_Hard to marry: easy to divorce._ The 21st century, of course, was doing its best to discourage family life. In their new world, the exact opposite was called for 

-----

"Sign this,' Tavington said in some embarrassment, shoving a ledger bound in green at Diana. She was helping Trinity, the new clerk at the Hall, arrange the huge, frescoed room that would be the administrative heart of their world. Eventually, the offices at the Laboratory would be emptied of everything not directly pertaining to the work there. Right now, Diana and Trinity were knee-deep in papers and dust.

Diana turned the volume around, trying to get a look at it. "But this—" she began, with a hint of laughter in her voice.

"Just sign it, if you please," he snapped. "And then I shall."

"You're asking me to marry you?"

"Yes, naturally. When we sign the register we shall be legally married here in Atlantis." He felt the heat of a faint blush.

She did not sign, but stood smiling fondly at him. "That is so romantic. No woman could resist such a proposal."

He was terribly self-conscious and beginning to be angry. "Well, sign it or----"

"I'll sign, I'll sign," she laughed. "I wish you had given me a little notice, so I could have been married in something other than my work clothes."

"You never wear anything _but _your work clothes," he objected. Diana found a pen and signed. She gave the pen to Tavington, brushing his hand with a feathery caress.

"Trinity," he called, as he inscribed his name under Diana's, "if you would be so good."

"Oh my God!" the girl exclaimed. "I'm going to record the first wedding on the Island." Eagerly, she took the pen from Tavington and signed her own name as clerk. "Well," she giggled. "I guess I can pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

And he did, after taking her upstairs to the rooms that would be theirs. He looked around with great satisfaction. From these upper windows there was a clear view across the square, down the road to the sea, blue-green and radiant. It was a view he would be happy to live with every day of his life.

"I want you to move your things here right away," he told his new wife. "I want you to move here permanently. I can sleep in Walford's old rooms at the Laboratory." He saw her about to object, and stopped her. "Don't, I pray you. This is important to me. If you stay here, Gretchen will remove the implant. And I need to know that you are safe. I am here nearly every day. There is a great deal for you to do here. We'll go back through the gate at the end of the shift and I'll help you start packing." He kissed her again. "This is our home now."

Diana smiled, and kissed him back. "This is our home."

-----

The King's Mountain operation was performed in stages. They did not want to flood the clinic with wounded men, and planned to remove them a few at a time. They decided to deal with the Ferguson problem first: the hardest, the most complex problem of all. That operation, too, was broken down into stages, some lasting only a fraction of a second. The pictures were magnified enormously. Ferguson himself was exhaustively measured. The engineers yammered endlessly about "computer modeling," and creating three-dimensional images on their machines.

How to do the least violence to the past was the problem. After studying the recordings at length, they decided that the simplest thing would be to get him off his horse before the bullets struck. Then the problem remained: the disappearance of Patrick Ferguson from his horse in the midst of battle, with dozens of eyes upon him.

Dieter went in and laid a charge, two days before the battle, timed with exact precision to the moment the bullets were fired. The charge would not do significant damage, but it would be tremendously loud and create a dense smoke screen. The volley would not be deflected. However, Ferguson would be obscured for several seconds, and it would appear that he had been struck by flying debris from an exploding powder keg. Decapitated, actually, for there was no way to fudge the likeness as there had been with Tavington, whose body had not been found immediately after Cowpens.

They would gate Ferguson into the clinic, have Tavington there to deal with his disorientation, and treat him for any injuries. There was no hurry. As soon as convenient, they would dress a headless cadaver, whose arm would be altered to resemble his, in his uniform and checked coat. The attackers would not perceive the transfer, which would happen nearly instantaneously from their perspective.

That was the plan, at least.

Like most things devised by human beings, things did not go exactly as planned. Tavington was waiting in the clinic, anxious to help his old friend. There was a flash of blue light, and Patrick Ferguson fell to the ground, his feet still in his stirrups. With him arrived pieces of saddle. He was in mid-shout, and bleeding. He tried to stumble to his feet, and looked around him wildly, profoundly shocked. Mark moved in from behind, a dose of sedative in hand, and quickly injected him. Ferguson lashed out at this new attacker, and Tavington stepped in.

"Pattie, you're safe. Look at me."

Ferguson, still on the floor, looked up at Tavington uncomprehendingly. He took a ragged breath and managed,

_"Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!"_

Tavington gave him a reassuringsmile. "I'm no angel, Pattie."

The sedative did its work, and Ferguson was persuaded toward a hospital bed. He grimaced in pain, for there had been a slight error in the gate, and the inside of his right calf had been flayed of its skin. Barely conscious, he was gently undressed, and his wounds cleaned. Tavington remained with him, assuring him that he was safe, but not taxing him with detailed explanations. Uneasily, he realized that Pattie might take a quite different view of his rescue than the one they had intended.

----

"How could you _do_ this, Tavington?" he cried accusingly. "How could you shame me by having me desert my men?"

Again, patiently, Tavington stated the facts. "Pattie, you were within a second of your certain death. You died that day, and many of your men. These people are rescuing as many of you as they can without changing history." He brought some books to Pattie's bedside, and showed him the printed history. Pattie was finding his defeat bitter and painful, and had not had Tavington's experience of near-death to help resign him to his changed circumstances. So Tavington related that story: his own horrific wounds at a later battle, the acceptance that he was dying, and his miraculous rescue.

He pointed out, "Just be glad that they didn't bring you here _after_ you had a dozen bullets in you!"

Ferguson rewarded this with a faint smile, but could not be distracted from the issue nearest his heart. "All my men—and those poor lasses of mine—I cannot desert them and keep a shred of honor."

"And you're not going to!" Tavington assured him. "As soon as you're well enough, we're going to start saving some of them too, but we need you to be there to help them. They can take a few at a time—we don't want to overwhelm the surgeons—but they can save perhaps three score or so. And those," he said forcefully, gaining confidence at the new look of purpose in his friend's eye, "are all men who will live to fight another day, and who will have outlived their murderers!"

And so it went. Ferguson's recovery took a little time. The calf wound was minor: the doctors were more interested in treating his anxiety, his rheumatoid arthritis, and his damaged arm. They planned two operations, and finally received Pattie's wary acquiescence. Gretchen said gently, "We can't make it perfect, but we can make it a lot better than it is." Before the first operation, though, he insisted that they help his men. And his women.

He gave his reluctant consent to dressing the headless corpse in his clothing. He understood the bones of their plan, but needed to absorb how very differently they viewed time. The corpse was gated out, and that part of the operation was complete.

Tavington saw to it that Ferguson had a great deal of emotional support. Bordon and the dragoons were brought in to pay a visit, and the men's enthusiastic stories about their wonderful island raised Pattie's spirits. So too, did Bordon's more measured thoughts about their opportunities and the extraordinary nature of this adventure. Pattie's eyes gleamed at the thought of exploring the ancient world, and he had numerous theories of his own about how to improve history.

Ferguson met Peter Price, who quickly realized that he was dealing with someone far more complicated than the dragoons, and far more intelligent than himself. Ferguson listened to Peter's lessons about 21st century life--about the equality of the sexes,about the political philosophies of the age--with a perfectly friendly air that did not conceal the irony in his expression. As he put it to Tavington, in one of their private conversations, "If they're so clever, why is their world a piss-pot?" After a moment's thought, he suddenly said, "All right, then. I'm with you. But you must save my poor lasses, and as many of my men as you can."

There was a discussion with Keith and Dieter. They were compassionate fellows, and Tavington had little trouble persuading him to do what he wished. With Swinburne busy giving Latin lessons, and with Diana safe on the island, there seemed little likelihood of opposition. When the plan was put into motion, Marianne heard and immediately confronted them.

"Are you completely out of your minds?"

Tavington reined in his temper. "We are taking both of them," he said flatly.

"Both of them! I can understand the girl who was killed. No one will miss her or think of her—but we don't know what happened to the other—"

Dieter broke in impatiently, "That's just it, Marianne! The surviving girl will wonder what happened to her cousin. She would make a fuss, she would talk. She was looking at her the entire time, for God's sake!"

Keith agreed, "We can't take Sally before she's shot. There are too many people around her. Once she's down on the ground, no one takes much notice except Polly. As soon as Polly reaches her side, we can get them both."

"And what about Polly? She didn't die that day!" Marianne turned red with frustration. "You don't know what happened to her! You don't know who might be descended from her! We could be removing a staff member's ancestor from the genetic pool. Do you want to risk that?"

Tavington had had enough, and said sharply. "Yes, and we are _going_ to risk it! You want to know what undoubtedly happened to Polly—what happened to hundreds of camp-followers just like her? She returned to the camp—she was passed from man to man—she contracted syphilis, or consumption, or swamp fever. She was killed in battle, or by a customer, or by bad water. She died any number of horrible deaths, and was cast into a muddy hole and forgotten. _That _is what happened to her. She matters only to two people in the entire world: one of whom is here in the Laboratory, and one of whom is about to die by a rebel's bullet. We are going to save her because she matters to Ferguson, and Ferguson matters to me. Is that understood?"

Marianne had flinched a little at his verbal assault, but stared back at him defiantly. "Oh, yes. I understand you perfectly well. But don't think this is over. By making exceptions for your friends, you've set a precedent. Don't be surprised when some of us want the same chance for people who matter to _us_." She turned her back and stalked away. Keith and Dieter blew out relieved breaths.

Ferguson was there when Polly and Sally appeared, and caught Polly up in his arms, restraining her as the medical team rushed Sally to surgery. The poor girl was dazed, and even more frightened when the staff insisted that she be checked out thoroughly herself. Again, sedatives did their work, and she was asleep in a clean white bed in short order. When she awakened, Pattie explained as much of the situation as she could take in, and told her that Sally would live.

Polly spent much of the time at Sally's bedside, and the nurses showed her how to perform simple tasks to help care for her. She was bewildered, but clung fiercely to her cousin. Pattie spent a great deal of time with her, and luckily she trusted him enough to remain calm. Equally helpful was a visit from Kathleen, who brought Polly a nicely fitted-up work basket of her own, and sat with her, helping her alter some new clothing to fit both her and Sally, when Sally would be recovered. They talked as they worked, and Polly gradually came to understand how very different this world was. Wisely, Kathleen did not attempt to dress the 18th century women in pants and lab coats. She brought the simple long dresses that she was making for life on the island. Straight-lined, in flower-like colors, they were strange but attractive to Polly, and she set to work willingly enough. Kathleen was impressed with the quality of her hand-work, and eventually took her on a visit to the tailoring workshop, introduced her to the other seamstresses, and displayed a sewing machine for Polly's amusement and edification. As Sally improved and regained consciousness, Polly had exciting things to tell her about their rescue. And as soon as Sally was better, they would travel to the beautiful island Polly had heard tell of.

They were bringing in a few soldiers each day. The doctors and nurses were run off their feet, and Polly was willing to help there, too. It was useful, in fact, when the men saw her familiar face. Most had been in great pain when they were gated in, and were grateful and unresisting. Some believed that they were in a very peculiar sort of Heaven, and were only disabused gradually by the sardonic jests of their Major. Besides serious injuries, there was disorientation and depression to be dealt with. It was an ongoing process, and Tavington left Ferguson to deal with the doctors and the engineers on this particular project.

----

Marianne had not forgotten their quarrel. She appeared a week later at a committee meeting, looking determined. Armed with a detailed proposal, she laid out her demands in a cool, clipped voice.

"The workers of the 3W Assembly Site of New Kowloon. I want to bring them all here." She allowed no time for comment. "By bringing in the new group of soldiers, the Project is creating a serious gender imbalance. There are seventy-three workers at the factory, and all are female. They are mostly convicts sentenced for political crimes. They are living in appalling conditions—I know, because I spent four months there in the office. I had a chance to get away. No one else is going to help these women. We need more people. We need more women. We need good workers. We can go in and gate them out as a group directly to the island."

"Without their consent? I don't know—" objected Lyudmilla.

"_With_ their consent," Marianne counted sharply. "We can go to the barracks at night. I'll ask them who wants to stay in the factory for the rest of their lives, and who wants to go live on an island paradise. Those who wish to remain, certainly can. I don't imagine there will be too many, though."

"But convicts—" Tavington frowned.

"_Political_ crimes," Marianne emphasized. "Failing to report an unauthorized pregnancy. Disagreeing with the current administration. Trying to organize union shops. Nothing that will prevent them being useful members of our society. And you're creating a crisis by bringing in too many men. It's that simple."

"There's nothing _simple_ about it." Lyudmilla was considering the situation. "However, I'm inclined to agree with Marianne. But what if the disappearance is traced back to us?"

"Unlikely," Marianne said. "As long as they all come, there's nothing to connect us with the situation. And we have plenty of housing now. We could lodge them six to an apartment, and they'd be thrilled. I know."

They all came, as Marianne knew they would. They did not immediately comprehend the fact that they had traveled through time. Their travel to a new location kept them distracted. Marianne undertook their management, and found plenty of work for them, as soon as she could keep them from running down to the beach. The addition of seventy-three women, between the ages of seventeen and fifty-three, changed the nature of the population profoundly. The fact that they were very appreciative and happy, and, for the most part, extremely hard-working, changed morale as whole for the better.

The appearance of the women at the New Atlantis town site sent ripples throughout the team. Most were pleased to have more helping hands for their own pet projects. A few approached committee members about friends or associates of their own. These requests were nearly always refused, for self-evident reasons of security or time-travel considerations, but one large-scale appeal reached the assembled committee and was seriously considered.

The children of the staff members had a school at the Aurora Project. The teachers had been dismissed by Walford along with family members and other non-essential staff, but three of the teachers had returned, and one of them, Susan Kreitzer, had brought back stories of her experience teaching under far worse conditions.

Work camps, scattered around the country, had orphanages attached for the children of deceased inmates. The children were warehoused, fed after a fashion, and taught enough to be useful when they turned seventeen and were deemed adults. They were then channeled directly into the camp labor pool. Miss Kreitzer had been desperate for work after her dismissal, and had taken the vacant position at Camp #1249's orphanage school. There had been forty-seven children, and only one other teacher to supervise them, a grizzled veteran named Miss Crockett. Most of the children were between seven and sixteen, for the little ones tended not to live long after losing their parents, or were occasionally taken in by foster homes.

Tavington fidgeted uncomfortably, listening to her anguished pleading. Weeping women made him nervous, unless they were pretty weeping women, who were susceptible to some pleasurable comfort. He did not find Susan Kreitzer attractive, with her spectacles, mousy hair, and face blotched with her endless sniveling. He was trying to think of a polite way to get rid of her, when Lyudmilla unexpectedly supported her.

"We only have thirty-five people under eighteen among us—forty-four counting the children of the workers admitted to the Project. I realize," she said dryly, looking around her, "that we're likely to have a population boom after settling permanently in Atlantis, but those children are not born yet. That gives us a big age gap between the staff –who are predominately in their thirties and forties—and any children who may come along. We need young people _now_, to learn vital skills and replace the older population. If we don't do this, we risk losing our viability as a settlement."

"What about security?" someone asked. "Isn't someone going to go looking for those children?"

"No one gives a _damn_ about those children," Susan Kreitzer burst out. "Tear a hole in the outer wall—make it look like they ran away. No one cares. There will be fewer mouths to feed, and the administration staff will keep them on the books and make a profit."

"And who will look after them?" Tavington asked. "Where might we put them?"

"Right in the Atlantis School," the teacher said earnestly. "There's plenty of room upstairs in that big school for the children. And maybe," she added in a lower voice, "people will take some of them in."

So it was that two nights later, Tavington went along with Miss Kreitzer, and took Marianne and Dieter with him. Marianne, he considered, owed him a favor, and it would be useful to have another woman along to cope with the children.They gated directly into a shabby concrete warren that stank of crowded humanity. It was dark there. Susan turned on a few lights and roused the children, making them gather in one of the larger classrooms.

"We're going on a trip, boys and girls!" Susan cried, with forced cheerfulness, as she passed the rows of cots. "A place much nicer than this. If you have anything important to you, get it and bring it along."

All the children had a few items. Some had boxes or shabby hold-alls. They tried to keep the children still, but the shrill little voices carried, and the older children were full of questions. A light clicked on in the floor above.

"What is this?" An angry old woman wrapped in a ridiculous purple robe swept into the room, and stood protectively in front of the orphans.

"Uh—hello, Miss Crockett! We've just come to take the children on a field trip!"

The grey-haired woman stood petrified, and then croaked, "Oh, God, is it true? Has the Central Committee really voted to dispose of superfluous children?"

Tavington stepped forward. He and the others were dressed in modern camouflage, and he realized that they might look like government agents. Apparently, that did not seem very reassuring to the older woman. "Madam, I am Colonel Tavington. I assure you we mean no harm to these children. In fact—"

"Miss Crockett! It's me! It's Susan Kreitzer! You know I wouldn't hurt them. We're going to make it look like they escaped and get them out of here to a much better place—"

"A better place!" Miss Crockett snapped furiously. "You think I don't know what that means?—'It's all right: they're in a _better place_ now!'" Carefully, she edged toward the door. "I'm calling the superintendent. Surely he won't allow this outrage—" She swayed, shot by Dieter's tranquilizer pistol. The big man caught her and eased her to the floor.

"She's all right," he called. "She'll just be sleepy for a few minutes. Now line up, kids, and we'll get you out of here!"

Some of the older children resisted, trying to help their teacher. The little ones started to sob. They rounded the lot of them up, herding them to the steps and out into the squalid courtyard, where the gate could get all of them at once. Some hung back, clearly frightened. It was taking too much time. One child broke away, and when Marianne caught her, they discovered that there was a baby sister left behind. Marianne went back into the building with the girl, and they retrieved the infant in her wicker basket.

At last they had the children arranged in a rough square in the proper dimensions. Dieter was about to give the prearranged signal for the gate, when Miss Crockett staggered out of the door, still in her purple robe, dragging a piece of luggage on wheels behind her.

Her words were slurred, but she was determined. "You're not taking those children anywhere without me!"

In less than five seconds, they were standing in the middle of Fountain Square. It was twilight, with streaks of rose and apricot cloud filling the dark-blue sky. Miss Crockett sat down abruptly, and the children stood absolutely silent before bursting into excited talk.

With great difficulty they were led (and pushed) into their school. The other teachers were already waiting and took them upstairs to the unused rooms filled with sleeping bags. Tavington sighed, his head aching. This was the absolutely the _last_ group retrieval. They would make do with the population they now had, aside from the continuing trickle of King's Mountain men. He said as much to Dieter, who grunted his agreement. They made their way to the Town Hall commissary and some welcome beer.

----- 

Tavington took Ferguson on a tour of the new town. They had rescued twenty-eight of his men by now, and his friend needed a distraction from sickbed visits. As soon as Sally was well enough, his two girls would move to Atlantis, and Ferguson wanted a look at his quarters beforehand.

There was a pleasant reunion with Bordon and the dragoons. Pattie admired the soldiers' quarters, spacious enough for families, and looked longingly toward the stables.

"Later," Tavington promised. They explored the new Town Hall, and Ferguson approved of his future rooms in the east wing. Diana had been there, and arranged them comfortably. If they wanted other things, there was the immense warehouse of household furniture from every period of history at the Laboratory to draw upon.

He found Diana in the office, and introduced his friend to his new wife. Ferguson was charming, and Tavington was proud of Diana's good manners. Her education was evident, and she knew how to speak to a gentleman of his own time. He was also pleased to see her wearing one of the gauzy, bright dresses that he had seen in Polly's hands. _So much prettier than pants._ The 21st century might not understand it, but it was important to him that his wife be so clearly a lady.

He bade her farewell, with a promise to dine—and stay—with her that evening. Ferguson was longing to see more of their settlement. They walked the circuit of Fountain Square, admiring the statuary, the school, the auditorium, the library, the "Masonic Temple" that had been converted into a museum. They stopped at the church and chatted with the vicar, Mr. Boulton. The day was wearing on toward eleven, and there was still much to see. Tavington decided to amuse Pattie by returning to the stable, and taking his two officers for a ride to the docks.

The three of them headed back through the square, and down Atlantic Avenue. The town was alive with activity. Crews were erecting another row of housing. People were walking about on business, or riding those odd two-wheeled contraptions. _Bicycles._

"How in the world do they stay on?" Ferguson wondered.

"No idea."

Everyone waved and called out greetings to Tavington, and he made the effort to smile and wave his acknowledgement. People were fickle creatures, and must be kept in humor. Ferguson had much to say about the excellence of the road. Tavington pointed out Julie Kolb's observatory, set high up in the hills above the town. The road up to it was not much more than a dirt track, but that would be seen to eventually.

The road dropped toward the sea and the docks were suddenly in view, along with their vessels. Lesley Urquhart's big schooner caught the eye, and they dismounted and walked down the quay, so Tavington could introduce his officers to the de-facto head of their navy.

No one was in sight, and Tavington was about look elsewhere, when a girl's voice called out from the rigging. "She's working on the starboard side, Colonel Tavington!" They looked up and saw a pretty young creature peering down at them. The girl dropped lightly to the deck, and shouted over the side. "Lesley! The Colonel wants to talk to you!"

"A sea nymph!" remarked Ferguson, delighted with the girl. Tavington only smiled to himself, anticipating what was to come.

There was a splashing, and Lesley Urquhart clambered up out of the water. She was on the dock with them before anyone could even offer her a hand, and stood there dripping, clad only in a sea green bathing suit. The scanty garment left nothing to the imagination. Ferguson and Bordon were awestruck, and Ferguson muttered low, "And here's a goddess!"

Tavington privately agreed. Captain Urquhart certainly was rather goddessy, in a muscular, Amazonian sort of way. Personally, he had found it best simply to deal with her as with another man. She seemed too straight-forward for gallantry or pretty speeches, even if he had been expert at such arts, and he was too involved with Diana to exert himself with a woman so far out of his own experience. She was evidently a competent sailor and navigator, she obviously could handle herself in difficult situations, and she was good to look upon from a safe distance. It was enough.

And his friends were no fools. As he made the introductions, he was unsurprised that they went smoothly. Bordon was circumspect with these modern women, finding them rather too mannish for his taste, but courteously according them the treatment they demanded. Ferguson, the incorrigible flirt, was frank in his admiration, but suave enough to avoid causing offence. Captain Urquhart simply gave him a cool smile and a measuring look—which could mean anything. Ferguson was undismayed, and continued his politic coquetry throughout their conversation. Tavington noted the appraising looks on either side, and realized that Ferguson saw in Urquhart the same kind of woman that he was a man.

Tavington noted that the name of the schooner had changed, and remarked on it.

"Yes," remarked Urquhart in her offhanded way. "I rechristened her. I decided that 'Enterprise' was a better name, given the circumstances."

"A fine name," Bordon agreed politely.

"And a famous name for a ship," Urquhart told them with a shrug. "There has been an Enterprise since there was an independent America. Among other things, 'Enterprise' was the name of the prototype of the first space shuttle. And I was thinking also of a fictional 'Enterprise,' whose mission was not so different than ours."

She said, gesturing at the ship, "_'To find strange, new worlds: to seek out new life and new civilizations: to—boldly—go where no one has gone before.'_" It was evidently a quotation of some sort. Diana would be able to explain it.

"Well said," allowed Tavington.

"Well said, indeed, Captain, " Ferguson affirmed with enthusiasm.

-----

"Will, darling---" Diana began, and stopped.

He was nearly asleep, but the tone of her voice suggested that she had something she needed to say.

"Yes?"

"Those orphans you rescued—"

"Troublesome little brats."

She laughed softly, and cuddled against him, stroking lightly over the hair of his chest and belly. "Some people are taking them in as foster children."

"Yes, very good of them," he replied, more interested in what her hand was doing.

"I think we should take one too."

He sat up, fully awake and disagreeably surprised. "Take in one of those—" He growled, "My dear Diana, if you knew the trouble those little wretches gave me bringing them here, you wouldn't ask that."

"They're only children, Will, and they were frightened. Even if we have a child very soon, it will be years before he or she could be old enough to be a companion. I thought perhaps a girl, maybe ten or eleven, who would like to learn music---"

Tavington paused. He did little enough to please Diana, and he sensed this was important to her. Considering their shared past, he thought he understood. "You want another Hannah Clay."

She pulled him down next to her, and nestled close, her arm around him. "I'll never forget Hannah," she agreed. "And it would be nice to have a child to teach and talk to again. "And," she added coaxingly, "if and when our children arrive, she could be such a help to me."

Making a final, weak attempt at resistance, Tavington observed, "Taking in a child is a serious responsibility. The girl would need to be provided for, and in the future—"

"She would have a home, and an education, and ten to one that would be all she'd need. It's not like the 18th century, when she would need a fortune of her own."

"Very well, my dearest, if it makes you happy," he surrendered. It would certainly set a good example, it would keep Diana close to home, and he imagined he would likely not have much to do with the girl. "But let her be a quiet, well-behaved child, at least."

-----

Emily Armstrong was certainly quiet enough. She was underweight and undersized, like all the orphans, with huge, watchful brown eyes. Diana scrubbed her thoroughly, and clothed her in a clean muslin dress, so Tavington could not complain of outraged sensibilities. Her close-cropped hair might have prevented an infestation of lice, but it did nothing for the girl's looks. She sat very close to Diana, and was remarkably still.

Tavington was careful to speak kindly to the child, and welcome her to their family. She whispered her thanks, and he had thought her unlikely to cause trouble. Naturally, he was wrong.

The child meant well, but her life in a crowded orphanage was against her. That first night, she had gone to bed obediently enough across the hall in the pretty room that Diana had prepared for her. In the morning, Tavington tripped over the child as he came out of his bedchamber. She had pulled the sheets from the bed and made a nest just outside their door.

"Why aren't you in your room?" he demanded sharply, and the child flinched.

"Too big," she whimpered. "I was all alone."

Diana came out to calm her, and took Emily back to her room. She was there with her some time. When they were finally ready for breakfast, and the child joined them at the table, Tavington was relieved that the girl did not gobble the food like a wolf, unlike some of the other children. He was chatting with Bordon, when he heard Diana's soft voice chiding the girl.

"Emily, that's not necessary. Put it back. I promise that you'll have lunch today, too."

He glanced past his wife. The girl had been stuffing her pockets with bits of food, evidently fearing she would never be fed again. He rolled his eyes. He hoped Diana's new protegee offered some pleasures along with the pains needed to raise her.

-----

"Before we leave the 21st century forever," Michael said to him one day, "there's something you should see."

Wondering, Tavington followed the geologist to the gate chamber. With a sly smile, Flynn activated the gate switch, and they were propelled into the cold and dark. After a moment, Tavington realized that they had arrived at their destination, but that it was still dark.

"Wait," Michael cautioned him. "We're in a preparation room, and it's the middle of the night. I'll get the lights, and then we'll go downstairs."

The electric lights clicked on, and Tavington saw that he was in some sort of laboratory. He shivered, throwing off the cold discomfort of the gate. Michael remarked, "You know, it's probably going to be a lot worse and a lot longer when the whole Project is moved."

"Don't remind me. Perhaps I won't have to be inside when it happens."

The geologist grinned, peered out the door to see if it was safe, and then signed for Tavington to follow him. "Come on."

They descended some broad stairs, and then turned out into an open mezzanine. There was dim light up ahead, a strange smell of chemicals, and a general feeling of vast space.

They went a little further, and then looked down. Before them was a huge hall, filled with wonders. A huge upright log, carved with animal faces. A pair of elephants, that looked alive and that could not be.

"A museum?" Tavington asked, mastering his excitement. Michael nodded, and pointed to the end of the hall.

Dark red and gigantic, the skeleton of a fantastic beast was displayed as if in action. Huge jaws, lined with fearsome teeth, gaped wide. Claws as long as Tavington's forearm stretched out to snatch at prey. Tavington gazed at it in delight, and then they found another staircase that took them to the great hall's main floor.

He stood before the monster quite a long time, taking in the extraordinary sight. "A dinosaur?" he asked reverently.

"Yes," Michael nodded, full of respect himself, "Tyrannosaurus Rex."

"Was it fast?"

"Fast enough."

There was another silence. "I don't suppose we could take this entire place with us?"

"No, I don't think we could really care for it properly. It has a huge staff. There are dinosaurs under the earth in the past, obviously. I know where to find them. Maybe we can mount an expedition someday and have some dinosaurs of our own."

"What a good idea. A dinosaur would look well in our museum."

They had only few hours to walk about and admire. Tavington saw Egyptian mummies and lifelike animals from all over the world, preserved by taxidermy. He saw jewels and jade, meteorites, and insects in amber. Yet more dinosaurs, and even more ancient creatures. Too soon, Michael said they must go.

They returned to the little upstairs room, and Tavington walked over to a window and peered out at a sprawling 21st century city, lights shrouded in smog, glittering uncertainly in the darkness. Michael stood by him, looking as well.

"Will you miss it?"

"Some things, I suppose. This. Not much else. It's one hell of a mess." He turned away decisively. "Let's go back."

-----

Neither the orphans, nor the factory workers, nor the masses of supplies and tools that were being bought, nor yet the army of laborers gated daily to the past brought an end to the Aurora Project. Sam Walford, the man who began it all, ended it as well.

Tavington returned to the Laboratory one morning well into the third month of construction. He was in good spirits. He had enjoyed a pleasant night with his wife, the work was going well, their little foster daughter was becoming less nervous and fearful, and she had learned to play her first piece on the pianoforte. Out a back window of the Town Hall, looking toward the soldiers' quarters and the green training field, he had seen Sergeant McKenzie and a group of his men teaching some of the older boys from the school how to play cricket. Recruiting was well in hand.

He reported into the office, and was met by Lisa, looking frantic.

"Oh, Colonel, I'm so glad you're here."

"What is it?"

The rest of the office staff were eavesdropping shamelessly. Lisa ignored them. "I've had a very worrying call from the Central Committee Intelligence Agency. Apparently, Mr. Walford has not paid his taxes for the past two years. They're sending out agents to speak to him, and they'll be here tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow afternoon?" Tavington was appalled. There was still so much to do…

"I'm sorry. I put them off as long as I could. The appointment is at two-thirty. We're lucky they're not here right now."

"I am not criticizing you. We must deal with this immediately. Summon the department heads for an emergency meeting so they can be notified. I want everyone here by ten o'clock. Gate someone through to notify anyone on the Island."

He went into his private office to think. _Above all, the laboratory must be moved. The foundation is ready, but must be clear of any obstructions at the moment we transfer. Nearly a score of Ferguson's men have yet to be rescued. Roads are incomplete—housing on the west side of the square is unfinished---the latest shipment of horses will not arrive for three more days—_

He had secretly hoped, once all possible wounded men were retrieved from King's Mountain, that they could save others of his own command. Chris Hueck had been killed in July of 1780, and Tavington had lost more men yet at Camden. None of that would happen now.

He groaned and slumped in the throne-like chair. _It could not have lasted forever_. They had approximately thirty hours to complete their preparations, and then they must leave the 21st century behind.

The meeting was brisk, after the first hysterics. Mark was emphatic: if they brought the rest of the soldiers through immediately, they would lose some of them. There were simply not enough doctors to save them all. They could pick up the pace a little for the next thirty hours. More he could not promise. Some administrative staff and craftspeople would be detailed to the clinic, as well as some of the new women workers, and they could probably be of some help. Keith and Michael, whom Tavington trusted, were called back to the Laboratory to help Tavington manage the move.

Royce, the veterinarian, thought that they could still get the horses, if they paid extra and he went to take possession himself. Tavington told him to get them by whatever means necessary. Among the horses was a pair of indispensable Arabian stallions for stud.

The labor crews would be worked around the clock to finish what they could of the roads and housing. Anything else would have to be done themselves. Most importantly, Doug assured him that the foundation of the laboratory was being kept pristine. They would finish their preparations, and be gone before the agents arrived, leaving only a hole in the ground for them to puzzle over.

-----

And then, of course, the government agents appeared _very_ early in the morning.

Tavington had slept over at the Laboratory, catching a few hours of rest before the final push. Lisa woke him, telling him that the security guard had called, and Agents Markham and Kelly were at the front gate and wanting admittance.

"I thought you said _two-thirty_!" He sat, somewhat dozy, on the edge of the bed, wrapping himself in a sheet for decency's sake.

"That's what _they_ said. I don't know why they've changed the time. Maybe they suspect something."

"Well, there's no help for it. Have Fellowes show them in and take them to that "visitors' lounge" place on the main level. Offer them tea—or coffee, I suppose. Have Fellowes watch them, and don't allow them to go anywhere else. Tell them that the appointment was for two-thirty, and that Walford has not yet arrived. Get Keith and Michael to replace Fellowes at the front gate and tell them to keep a sharp lookout." He waved her off. "I need to get dressed. I'd like to have a look at our visitors for myself."

The "visitor's lounge" had a very modern-looking mirrored wall, which, Tavington had discovered, allowed him to see the area while not being seen himself.

The agents were fairly young: a man and a woman, dressed in dull grey. If they were armed, it was not apparent, but Tavington thought it likely that they were.

Lisa approached them with a tray of coffee, and they showed her some sort of identity papers. The man introduced himself as Markham and the woman as his partner, Kelly. Lisa was so very sorry that they had come too early and would have to wait. Mr. Walford would not be here until shortly before the appointment this afternoon. Perhaps they would like to come back later? Her serene, helpful air, her unctuous tones of sympathy made Tavington smile. _What a cool liar. She's probably had plenty of practice, working for a man like Walford._

"No," replied the tall male agent, helping himself to a cup of coffee, "we'll wait. We've come a long way, and we wouldn't want to miss Mr. Walford."

"Especially since no one seems to have seen him in a _very_ long time," interjected the woman, with unsmiling directness. Tavington thought her quite pretty, in a severe way, with dark red hair pulled back into a knot. He considered her observation. _Ah, someone has noticed that Walford is gone. This may be even more serious than we first supposed._

Lisa assured them in the most confident way that Mr. Walford would be here precisely at two-thirty for their appointment.

"Actually," Markham told her, swigging down his coffee quickly, "we don't need to wait for Walford to get started. We have orders to examine the financial records of this installation. To examine all his records, in fact."

"—But we thought we'd start here, since none of his other interests show much in the way of financial activity in the pastfew months."

"—Whereas _this_ place has been just as busy as a beehive," grinned Markham, with threatening suavity.

Lisa drew herself up, still impeccably polite. "I believe you should be speaking with someone with more authority. Wait here, and he'll be with you shortly."

"I'm going to have another cup of coffee," said Markham agreeably. "If he's not here by the time I finish it, we're coming looking for him. And we have the power to impound the entire installation."

Lisa walked away with perfect poise, but when she saw Tavington, she was clearly frightened. "What are we going to do?"

"Use that caller thing of yours--" he said patiently.

"—my communicator," Lisa prompted discreetly.

"Yes, yes, your communicator--and summon Paul. He can play the cooperative and unintelligible lawyer perfectly well, I'm sure. Have him ask them about what they want to do, and tell him to take copious notes. We need to delay them as much as possible. And if they become difficult, we can use other means."

Lisa's eyes were wide. "You wouldn't—kill them—would you?"

Tavington shrugged, "Only if they give me no other option. Oh, and call Dieter for me. I want to talk to him, too." He spent a moment in reflection, while Lisa made her calls. _How long before someone else comes looking for these people if they do not make a report to their superiors? Killing them in cold blood may not be a good idea--especially killing that young woman. It would shock and offend my own people. Better to clap them in irons and lock them up until we are ready to leave._

Which is what they did. The agents were sitting there, arguing with Paul, when Dieter shot Markham from behind with the tranquilizer gun. They had thought him the greater threat, but Tavington was surprised and impressed with the young woman's reflexes. The moment she saw her partner fall from his chair, she reached into her jacket and pulled an automatic pistol. She even got off a wild shot, shattering a section of mirror, before she too collapsed. Paul sat stunned, papers clutched tightly to his chest.

"Holy shit!" he chattered. "Warn me next time."

"There won't be a next time," Tavington assured him, helping the unsteady man to his feet. "Thank you for distracting him. You were a tremendous help. Now, please go down to the clinic and offer any assistance you can. We may have a lot of wounded arriving very soon." Paul stumbled away, and Tavington turned to Dieter, who had disarmed the agents, and was snapping manacles on their wrists. "Lock them up in one of the biology laboratories—the one with a surveillance window." He called to the approaching security guard. "Here, Fellowes! Help Mr. Held carry our guests, and don't let them out of your sight. We'll put them out the door as soon as we're ready to leave."

He went himself to give the medical staff the bad news. The clinic was crowded. Ferguson had arrived and was going about the beds, talking to anyone conscious, and doing his best to maintain order. Everyone paused to listen. Tavington saw little point in keeping secrets.

"Government agents arrived this morning. They're currently under guard, but more may come looking for them. We have lookouts posted, and they're to notify me immediately if we have more visitors. I am sorry, but you must be prepared to receive the rest of the wounded as a group at any moment. We might have to leave on short notice."

Reluctantly, Gretchen contacted the engineers and told them of the accelerated schedule. They were to stand by for a possible quick exit. Tavington left. He had other things to do, and had no desire to see the ensuing blood and chaos. He told Dieter to find arms and armor for himself, for Ferguson, for Michael and Keith, and for any other men on staff fit to handle weapons. He pulled his own gear from its place in his office, and armed himself with scrupulous care.

Royce was contacted, and told to steal the damned horses if he must, but to get back immediately. A messenger was dispatched to Atlantis, with orders to gate out all the contract work crews at once.

Tavington spent an anxious hour, before he got word from the Island. The crews were gone, but had been a few men short of the proper number. Some had hidden on the island, then. Bordon had caught some of the runners over the past few weeks, but these today were destined to be permanent residents. _All we need are outlaws running loose up in the mountains. Those men must be tracked down and put to useful work_. _Perhaps I'll see to that myself_. Royce was safe on the Island with some extra horses in addition to the ones he was sent to fetch. _Perhaps he did steal them. Good man._

Keith and Michael called in from the lookout posts. There had been no sign of other intruders.

Tavington collected Dieter, and went down to check on the prisoners. They were alert and talking quietly and urgently with each other. They didn't appear particularly frightened. Rather they looked as if they were readying themselves for battle.

He opened the door and faced them. "Quite all right, I see."

They stared for a moment, and Tavington realized they might find his hairstyle, scarlet uniform jacket, and weaponry unusual. And Dieter was impressive in his superkevlar.

Markham smirked, "And who are you? Samurai King George and Conan the Barbarian?"

Tavington answered easily, "Actually, no. Colonel William Tavington, late of His Majesty's service. Yes, the katana is nice, isn't it? We'll be removing you from the laboratory shortly. You really should have come at the appointed time, and saved yourself this unpleasantness."

"Listen to him, Kelly, the bad guy is being smooth. How clichéd is that?"

"Easy, Markham," the woman warned her partner, her eyes fixed on Tavington.

"I believe I understand what you mean by the term 'bad guy,'" Tavington replied frostily. "And I absolutely reject its application to me. If there are any villains here, it would the two of you, representing your tyrannical government. At any rate, you won't be harmed. Within the hour we'll put you outside the compound, and be on our way."

"_'On our way,'_" Kelly echoed. "You're leaving? Tell me this—is Walford dead?"

Tavington considered. _Well, the fellow went to the mid-nineteenth century. That would mean---_"Yes, I believe I can safely say he _is_ dead—in a way."

The two agents looked at each other, and seemed even more distrustful. Kelly said dryly, "I think you're in for more trouble than you can handle with a sword. The second you shot Markham, I activated an emergency signal. Our chief will be looking for us, and—"

A voice squawked on Dieter's communicator.

"They're here!" the German growled. A moment later, there was a tremendous _bang_ that shook the ceiling.

"---And there's the cavalry to the rescue," Markham triumphantly completed his partner's sentence.

Tavington glared at them. "Wrong, Mr. Markham._ I_ am the cavalry." He slammed the door in their faces and locked it. "If they try to escape, shoot them!" he shouted at Fellowes. To Dieter, he cried, "Come on!"

The two men raced upstairs and were met by Ferguson, coming from the hospital. Michael and Keith were running down the damaged entrance hall. The door had been blasted away.Outside, the familiar dusty yellow sky was veiled with thick black smoke. Keith yelled, "Government agents! They're in three helicopters, and they threw a pressure grenade through the entrance!"

An amplified voice was blaring. "Come out and surrender yourself to authorized agents of the Committee! If you do not come out in one minute, we will send in agents to seize the compound! Come out and surrender yourself—"

Tavington tuned out the irritating voice. He grabbed Keith by the shoulder. "Tell the gate crew to retrieve the rest of the wounded right now and then to move the compound immediately afterward!" There were dark shapes moving beyond the smoke at the end of the hall. Michael readied his state-of-the-art Takahashi-Uevler. Ferguson already had his own pistol out, a 9 mm. Beretta. Dieter unholstered his Uzi, and Tavington drew his Rugers. They moved to the sides of the hall, and found what cover they could.

"Wait," Tavington ordered in a soft, tense, voice. "Make them wait as long as possible. We don't want any more of them in here than necessary after the Laboratory moves."

Keith was muttering into his communicator and looked up to whisper. "We've got the wounded!"

The inhumanly loud voice was still roaring commands. "—to seize the compound! You now have thirty seconds! Come out—"

Keith raised his voice over the noise from outside. "No, now! Right now! They're just outside! Do it!" He clicked the device shut, and pulled his own weapon.

The wait was interminable. Dieter grunted, "They'll all be in armor, so aim under the helmet visor and under the arms."

"---ten seconds!"

Tavington swallowed. He glanced over at Ferguson. The Scotsman gave him a jaunty grin. He smiled back.

Men erupted through the blasted-out door frame, and began running in their direction.

"Fire!" Tavington snarled, and as one they unleashed a hail of bullets. The intruders paused, and began firing back. One of them retreated, evidently to report their resistance. Another fell, dead or wounded. A round cracked against the wall beside Tavington and plowed a long dent into the metal. He felt a blow like a fist to his chest, and heard the whine of a ricochet. His armor proved all he had hoped.

The agents paused again to confer, suddenly moved into a wedge-shaped formation, and began running down the hall again, pouring fire before them. Michael and Dieter's automatic weapons blazed in reply. Tavington shuddered. The rate of fire was shocking. He held tight, reloading, and waited for them to come nearer. He would have a better chance against their armor at close range—

A wave of unnaturally blue light swept through the building and engulfed them, surging on past them and down the hall, leaving black oblivion in its wake. The cold was worse than ever before, and the darkness impenetrable. It lasted frighteningly long, and Tavington tried to breathe in this no-man's land between times. _Well,_ he told himself, _we're moving the entire compound and the time gate apparatus as well. They told us it would be different. It can't last forever—it can't last forever—it can't forever—_

And the light returned. The building settled, with the slightest of jolts. Nothing had changed, but they must have made it, for the sky at the end of the entrance hall was clear blue. Their attackers had paused in confusion, and Tavington seized the initiative.

"At them!" Without hesitation, he dashed forward, firing at the leader. His friends were right beside him, and there was a brief, shockingly violent conclusion to the fight within two minutes. His pistols clicked empty, and his katana slid from its sheath with voluptuous ease. He accounted for two agents himself, making certain he had killed them. The last thing he wanted to deal with were hostile, well-trained soldiers in this place. Nor did the agents give them much opportunity for quarter. Their bulky weapons were no match at close quarters for cold steel. The blade sliced effortlessly under the helmets: the point unerringly sought out the armor's gaps. It was over quite suddenly. Michael went to have a look at the man who had been wounded in the first assault, and was nearly stabbed as he leaned over him. Dieter shot the man reflexively.

The hall was filled with almost corporeal silence. They each took a deep breath. New Atlantis had been christened with a battle, and Tavington prayed there would never be another on this soil.

"Hello there!"

Tavington and the others stared at each other, and then looked down the hall to the outside.

"Hello there!" It was Doug Horn. "Are you all right? What was all that noise?"

"Our farewell party," Tavington answered. His friends laughed. "It was a lively affair."

-----

Agents Markham and Kelly, still in handcuffs, were brought upstairs by the guard, and down the main hall. Signs of a tremendous struggle were all around them. Kelly trod in a puddle of something dark and sticky as they were hurried toward the entrance. The door was gone, evidently blown off its hinges. They stepped outside, and both gasped.

Instead of the yellow dust of North Dakota, they were in clean air looking down a green hill toward the ocean. A brilliant blue sky, adorned with a few fluffy white clouds, stretched above them endlessly. Around the corner of the building, they were led toward what appeared to be an open square in the middle of a small town. A huge fountain was set at one side of it. They were heading toward the building facing across the square toward the sea. The guard gave them a push when they dawdled too long, staring, and they walked around the side of the building to the front entrance. They ascended a flight of stairs, and were pushed again, this time through the tall open doorway.

A crowd of people, buzzing with conversation, milled about inside the high-ceilinged room that ran down the center of the building. Here and there an excited laugh rose above the din. The two agents looked quickly around them. The floor was inlaid marble, the walls covered with paintings and gilt. There was an astonishing chandelier that even unlit refracted light around the room from its prisms. The crowd parted, looking them over with hostility or mere curiosity.

At the other end of the room stood the man who had introduced himself as Colonel Tavington. He had removed his helmet and armor, but had retained the old-fashioned, bright red uniform jacket . He was still heavily armed, with his katana slung over his back and a revolver on each hip. Next to him was an attractive woman with upswept, slightly curling hair, wearing a simple long dress of indigo blue that iridesced subtly with shades of purple. She wore a strand of pearls and antique gold earrings. Holding her hand was a little girl in white with hair so short she almost appeared to have a shaven head. Around them were other men in red jackets, and some men and women in white lab coats or work clothes, and some women in colorful dresses, and a few more children, and even a man in a clerical collar.

Everyone appeared to be in celebratory mood, and the Colonel was smiling, looking extremely handsome and happy until he caught sight of the two government agents. He gestured to their guard to bring them forward.

Clear and unmistakably English, his voice carried above all others. The room fell silent.

"Let us welcome Agents Markham and Kelly, our newest recruits!" The two agents stared back defiantly, and Tavington only looked amused.

"You can't keep us forever," Markham taunted him. "We'll find a way to escape, and then you'll regret kidnapping agents of the Central Committee." To his surprise, the room burst into laughter.

"Actually," Tavington contradicted him with a curl of his lip, "we _must_ keep you here forever, for due to your untimely appearance, there is now no way ever to return you whence you came." He took a step forward, looking at them almost pityingly. "Surely you've noticed something different about your surroundings?"

"You have beachfront property. So what? It's not private enough to hide you forever." There was more laughter.

Tavington smiled with a hint of malice. "Ah, but it is. We have nothing _but_ privacy in this year of Our Lord 146. We did not just take you a great distance in miles, but in years. And there is now no way to return to the future you knew—not that any of us care to try."

Obviously skeptical, Kelly declared, "Time travel is a scientific impossibility. It's been proven." People around her shook their heads.

Tavington approached her, and stood holding her gaze with unnervingly pale blue eyes. "I was born in 1746. I am thought to have died at the Battle of Cowpens in the American War of Independence. My wife over there met me when she came back in time to study that age. Her friends saved my life, and I stand before you, a man who has lived in three centuries—so far. You'll learn. And soon."

Kelly lifted her chin. "What are you going to do with us?"

Tavington admired her nerve. "Well, that is largely up to you. Your interference and the actions of your fellow agents would, if successful, have sentenced us all to death---even innocent children, sent to your ghastly work camps." He glanced at the little girl in white, and his expression softened. "But I believe we are willing to forgive and forget if you put your past behind you and contribute your share to the success of our settlement."

"We're not doing _anything_ for you people," Markham shot back. There were mutters from the crowd, and a tall, sandy-haired man called out, "Fine. Drop them off on one of the desert islands."

"Or somewhere around 300 A.D. And in Japan," suggested an older woman.

A young woman said spitefully, "I wish we could just put them down in New Kowloon without any identity papers!"

Tavington acknowledged the speakers, and turned to the agents, "So you see, it is indeed up to you_. Those who do not work shall not eat._ But for those willing to participate, our new home, our New Atlantis, offers immeasurable hope and possibility—clean air, clean water, and the chance to give the world a fresh start. How can you say 'no' to that?"

Kelly and Markham were silent, their eyes glancing uneasily about the room.

"Tell me, Miss Kelly," Tavington inquired, addressing the young woman with cool courtesy, "What can you do that does not involve firing pistols at people?"

Kelly drew herself up. "I'm a doctor."

"Really—a medical doctor?"

The woman nodded warily. "A forensic pathologist."

Tavington looked blank and his wife whispered in his ear.

"Ah," he said. "Autopsies. Clever of you, finding a specialty that means you can never lose a patient! When we need an autopsy done, we shall certainly come to you. In the meantime," he said, his face growing hard, "we have living men who need medical assistance. You will be escorted to our hospital, and we shall see what kind of doctor you really are."

"I can take her with me," offered one of the men in lab coats.

"All right," Tavington agreed. His voice dropped to a threatening growl. "And Miss Kelly, do not dream of harming any of my people and escaping. If you raise a hand to people who are willing to trust you, you will not be marooned. I shall hang you. Never doubt it." He stepped back, again smiling. "Now off with you. There are good men who may die without your assistance!"

The young woman's handcuffs were removed, and she was led away. A few others left with them, to take a turn at clinic duty. Tavington fixed an intimidating regard on Agent Markham.

"And you, sir? What have you to offer us?"

The man took a breath, and let it out, thinking.

"What are you good at?" asked a big man in a plaid shirt.

Markham said slowly, "I'm good at finding out the truth about things." He saw his audience was unimpressed, and added, "I have a Master's Degree in Psychology from Oxford University."

A slight man in one of the red jackets, who seemed to have something wrong with his arm, said jocularly in a Scots accent, "Ah, a gentleman and a scholar! And he knows which end of a gun the bullet comes out!" He grinned at Markham. "Tell me this, Mr. Markham—can you ride a horse?"

"I rode a horse—once."

"Then you are the new lieutenant of the Atlantis Militia." The crowd started to laugh again, seeing Markham's expression, Tavington along with them.

The Scotsman stepped closer. "Come along with me, Mr. Markham, and we'll issue your commission today. Don't look so down-hearted, laddie! It's a new world—anything can happen! You may even find you _like_ the Army!" He put his good hand on Markham's shoulder, and propelled him to a nearby office, accompanied by a number of other red-coated men.

Tavington called after him, "Don't forget, sir, my warning applies equally to you. Serve faithfully, and you shall reap great rewards. Otherwise---" he shrugged and turned away.

A moment later, Summer announced that she was serving cake in the next room, and the children were sent off to get their pieces right away. Most of the adults moved in that direction, if more deliberately, but Diana hung back to speak to her husband.

She murmured, "They'll need watching."

"Oh, no doubt," Tavington agreed. "And they _shall_ be watched. As soon as time permits, Markham will be shown sufficient evidence of our journey."

"And Dr. Kelly?"

Tavington laughed harshly. "That young woman is about to get all the proof she needs in the form of a surgery full of wounded eighteenth-century soldiers! Perhaps she won't be so quick to discount the evidence of her own eyes."

"It was pretty high-handed of Major Ferguson to press Markham into service that way."

"He has my entire support. It would be a waste of his education to have the fellow digging ditches, and he would nurse his grievances and plot rebellion. This way he is given a position of authority—suitably supervised—and so has a stake in our venture."

"And I thought you were simply a man of action. You've really become quite the politician, Will--but not a very democratic one!"

Tavington pulled his wife close and kissed her hand, and then very softly, her mouth. He purred, lips brushing her ear. "My love, surely you remember that I am, after all, a monarchist?"

Michael Flynn came to look for them. "Get a room, you two!" he laughed. "But have some cake first. Summer's cracked open a case of champagne for us, and you'd better get it while it's cold!"

"No champagne for me," Diana told Tavington, with a playful air.

"Why not?" It took him a moment to understand her silent message, and then a moment of unparalleled happiness pierced his heart like an arrow. "Really?"

"Yes," she confirmed, turning quite pink, but looking entirely delighted, all the same.

"Well," he said. "Well. _I'm_ certainly going to have some champagne!"

Tavington tucked Diana's hand firmly into the crook of his arm, and strode into the splendid chamber, filled with people he had not known six months before. Now they were his friends, his colleagues—his charges, some of them. He had a future full of limitless possibility, and the promise of supreme adventure. No king, ancient or modern, had ever wielded power like to that possessed by the inhabitants of this New Atlantis. Time was their servant, their weapon, and their inheritance. How they made use of Time would be their greatest challenge.

----- 

**Note**: My thanks to all who reviewed and/or enjoyed this mini-adventure. Yes, there are some crossover elements here. Not just S. M. Stirling's _Island in the Sea of Time _(highly recommended, and the obvious _Star Trek, Jurassic Park,_ and _X-files_ refs, but I'm also channeling Plato's mention of Atlantis in the unfinished dialogue _Kritias_. Just indulging myself. Perhaps I shall write a short sequel in the future. The next installment of the anthology will return us to the stand-alone stories. **Episode 10: Mary Sue and the Ravages of Time.**


	15. Mary Sue and the Ravages of Time

Disclaimer: No, of course I don't own the rights to _The Patriot._ It's a lousy piece of historical fiction, but a good launchpad for fanfiction. Harrison Ford was quite right to refuse Mel Gibson's role (on the grounds that it reduced all the real issues of the Revolutionary War to a melodrama of "one man's revenge.")

But first:

**An Author's Note: Who is Mary Sue?**

I was asked recently in a review if these stories were meant to make fun of Mary Sues? Well, _duh_, you might say—but that's not entirely true. Many of them do. The classic Mary Sue is a laughable projection of an author's fantasy self. When badly written, Mary Sue is indeed divinely beautiful, superhumanly gifted—and woefully ignorant of not only historical reality, but of natural human behavior. Inexperienced writers constantly create these lovely figments of the imagination and then shoehorn them into a romance with their current crush. Then again, fanfiction authors are constantly accused of writing Mary Sue characters when creating any non-canon character. I myself was accused of writing several Mary Sue characters in _Et In Arcadia Ego,_ despite my best efforts to write the female characters as close to historical reality as I could manage. Is Elizabeth Wilde a Mary Sue? I categorically deny it. Many non-canon characters in the Harry Potter fandom would be impressive creations in published fiction.

In _Mary Sue in the 18th Century_, I have had a great deal of fun mocking the sort of inept characterizations I have read in many fandoms. What would happen to ignorant fangirls if they actually found themselves in the 18th century for the day (or indeed in the real worlds of many other fandoms)? One of the funniest cartoons I ever saw was in the old _National Lampoon_ magazine, showing a group of stereotypically dorky RPG players being summoned by Gandalf to face a dragon. They don't look particularly pleased. To some of the most jejune writers I offer this challenge: think seriously about what you really like most to do in the course of the day. If you actually visited the time in question, would you be able to do those things? (or would you drink the water, come down with dysentery, and die before you ever met William Tavington, Gabriel Martin, Captain Jack, Legolas, Achilles, Balian, etc., etc., etc.?)

I have also tried to create more naturalistic heroines, who don't find the 18th century much more bearable.

However, as I have written these stories (and enjoyed those written by Zubeneschamali), I've come to a sea-change in my opinion of Mary Sue. Only in fanfiction is she reviled. In published novels, Mary Sue is big business. If any one has read the excellent Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes novels, beginning with _The Beekeeper's Apprentice_, you'll know what I mean. If written as a fanfic heroine (which in a sense she is)), anyone would identify the omnicompetent Miss Russell as a Sue. Check out _any_ romance novel for Sueishness. In the _Lymond Chronicles_ of Dorothy Dunnett, one of the finest series of historical novels ever written (IMHO), Philippa Somerville is a brilliant and delightful manifestation of MS. The fantasy heroines of classic adventure novels by H. Rider Haggard (_She_), Edgar Rice Burroughs, et. al., are hardly meant to be depictions of believable human females. No more are Eowyn or the Warrior Princess. And as for extensions of the authors—what about Jane Eyre? (oh, right—she's not beautiful—she has a flaw—but she still holds her own against the world and ends up happily ever after, abetted by some of the silliest plot devices that ever shored up a novel I enjoy.) We want our heroines to be larger than life, whether hewing the winged steed of the Lord of the Nazgul, magically detaching a _Ka_ to fight traitors, or setting the county aristocracy on its ear. And if the heroine is created by a female author, who uses her own experience and truths she has come to understand about her self—well, that's the thrifty use of good material!

Indeed, if written by a _male_ author, Mary Sue (sorry , Gary Stu) in the sense of a personal extension, has a noble pedigree. _"Oh, dear Lord Byron, I am certain you are Child Harold himself!"_ _"Mr. Salinger, are you the real Holden Caulfield?"_

So, as I write these stories, I am more and more in sympathy with our good friend, Mary Sue. A good character is a good character, a good story a good story, and if the heroine has a nodding acquaintance with anyone I know, I will not hide my head for shame, but salute her as my ideal, my doppelganger, and my sister.

And now on to the story, in which our heroine meets the man of her dreams twenty years too late. Genre: time travel/humor/drama.

**Episode 10: Mary Sue and the Ravages of Time **

In her last month of graduate school, Victoria was given the miniature by her faculty adviser. Caroline Hibbard was only five years older, but prodigiously degreed and nearly tenured. Her Tudor/Stuart seminar was fascinating: her Age of Aristocracy class even better. Victoria was the first student she had advised, and she was proud as a parent when the Orals went well.

"Here." Dr. Hibbard had had just a little too much to drink at the Post-Prelims party. She swayed determinedly over to Victoria, and pressed a soft paper package into her hand. "Here," she repeated. "I'm done with it. It was no good. Had all I wanted. You give it a go, Tory. Just tell him how handsome he is, and you're in. Your turn to be Cinderella. Let me know how it works out." Just then, the department head called to her, and she changed course; ultimately to fall limply into his lap, to his great pleasure and alarm.

Victoria was feeling a bit woozy herself, but pulled back the paper to see what it contained. Before her was a miniature of Colonel William Tavington. She groaned, embarrassed. She had developed quite the crush on Tavington during her studies of the late 18th century British army, and Caroline had found out and had a good laugh at her expense.

They had been chatting in Dr. Hibbard's office three weeks before when all was revealed. "Mind you," her adviser had admitted, with a sly grin. "You're not the first. My umpty-great-grandparents--well—there was a connection of sorts and we got some of the Tavington family items. A few letters, some hanks of hair, a very nice miniature portrait—" She paused, looking at the ceiling for a moment. Then, briskly, she went on. "Hardly worth a monograph, but still—" She paused again. "Some of the items were rather dodgy, frankly. It doesn't do to moon over them. That's when I decided to avoid the subject. Plenty of other stalwart blokes to research."

Victoria had asked to see the miniature, but Dr. Hibbard had always put her off. "Doesn't do to dwell on it. Unhealthy. It would just make you unhappy in the end."

But now it was hers. She unwrapped it completely, and ducked into the bathroom to admire. She closed the door, and the party noise subsided to a dull roar. There was a sharp, perfumed scent of _L'Air du Temps_ bath powder in the air, a refreshing change from the hearty smells of beer and pizza. The department head was a raging anti-elitist.

The portrait was quite beautifully done: only four inches from top to bottom, and framed elegantly in gold leaf and seed pearls. Time had dislodged some of the pearls and chipped away at the gold, but the brilliant colors of the portrait itself were undimmed. Tavington was in dress uniform, hair unpowdered. The painter's skill had given life to the little picture, and the man's bright eyes gazed keenly back at his admirer. _Tell him how handsome he is._ Victoria's lips quirked. _You'd like that, wouldn't you, William Tavington?_ The artist had made him handsome, but had also captured the man's air of cocksure arrogance. The little picture seemed to reach out to her—

"Gary's about to barf!" A fist pounded on the bathroom door. "So quit whatever you're doing, and let us in NOW!"

Victoria shoved the miniature into the pocket of her jeans, and fled the room, shunted aside by two other grad students supporting the unhappy Gary between them. She was distracted into conversation with two of the professors who had examined her, and went home happy. The little picture was put carefully away in a drawer, and she promised herself a good long drool over it when she was not so busy. It was not to be.

For one day she was on track to start her dissertation (on the Foxes). The next day the world abruptly ended.

Well, not the world. Only her academic career, stillborn before it even began. Mom was sick, it seemed; her brother of no use at all; the family in desperate need of a breadwinner. Victoria spent a few days grasping hopelessly at straws before she finally accepted that she would not be able to finish her doctorate right away. She snatched at the offered government job with decent benefits and mediocre pay, and prepared to become a worker bee. _You can't disappoint the people who love you_, she consoled herself. After all, she would be a great help to Mom, who had never understood her scholarly aspirations anyway.

The miniature was thrown into a little cedar box, along with letters from her two serious boyfriends. The little cedar box was thrown into a large packing box, filled with her papers, her thesis, her notes from her graduate school classes, snapshots, and all the other detritus of a vanished life. The packing box was thrown into the back of a van with the other boxes, and the van took off, leaving behind The Ivory Tower, and heading toward The Real World.

The box followed her everywhere: to her first apartment—the one she fled when she found it was infested with roaches--and to the next, and the next, and the next. It went with her from city to city, year after year. Victoria kept the box, long after all hope had faded that she would ever be able to return to school. It was a talisman—a reminder of a lost Garden of Earthly Delights, and she could not bear to part with it, even though she never opened it.

She found a better job. Her brother married and was on some other woman's hands. Victoria got married herself. Always, the box traveled along; part yet not part of her life. David complained that she was a packrat, and she replied that he was just as bad. It was too true for denial, and he dropped the issue.

Her daughter was born, and grew, and went to school, and blossomed into a beautiful woman. Victoria gradually began looking at pretty clothes, not for herself, but for her daughter, who now had the clean jawline, the long neck, the flawless skin that Victoria had had in another age of the world. Almost unnoticed, men had stopped looking at Victoria. Stupid boys no longer honked their horns when she walked down the street. Waiters no longer hovered to flirt. She looked in the mirror and saw that somehow she had become middle-aged. _How did this happen to me?_

Her family moved into, if not their dream house, certainly close enough for rational happiness. The box was relegated to the crawlspace, along with the boxes of Dana's school papers, ribbons, pictures, and awards.

-----

_"You fucking piece of shit!"_

David was fixing something in the crawlspace. Victoria heard him all the way upstairs when she came in from the garden, and she couldn't contain the automatic rueful grin. _David's magic words. _He could fix anything, make anything, do anything, but somehow saying those particular words was always required to achieve the desired result.

He stamped up the stairs and stared at her aggrieved. "Tory, that goddamned box has got to go! There's no more room!" Kindly, she did not laugh at his expression, or at the dirt on the end of his nose. David was still a remarkably attractive man. _He's certainly kept his figure better than I have—though of course, the no childbirth thing for men probably helped._

She trimmed the ends off the peonies. Nice, fluffy, white and pink ones. She was very fond of flowers, especially fragrant ones. Living with David, who was a horticulturist among other things, had taught her quite a bit about plants. She sniffed_. The white ones always smell best._ "Which box?"

"That goddamned big heavy one marked 'School Stuff.'" I don't know if it's yours or Dana's or what, but it's got to go so I can get at the sump pump."

Victoria sighed. "Well, if you can get it out into the library, I'll go through it." She had really wanted to go looking for Dana's birthday present….

David was still irritated. _And after all, he's the one working, and here I am arranging flowers._

"I'll do it now," she promised.

He disappeared downstairs with a righteous huff, and she could hear his resentful thumpings as he manhandled the box through the crawlspace door. Victoria hurried downstairs to help him. She tipped the crumbling brown cardboard container towards her, and pushed it over to the sofa. David retreated back in the cement cavern of the crawlspace to perform eldritch rites on unfathomable devices, using his preferred incantation. Victoria closed her ears. She'd heard it all before, and as long as it worked…

The box looked rather sad: corners crumpled, the sides scraped. Altogether it had a sunken, furtive look, as if it had long ago lost all self-respect as a box. Victoria sat looking at it for some time, reluctant to revisit this piece of her past. The bright hopes of her days at Parnassus U. did not deserve to be reduced to this shabby parcel of irrelevance. Diffidently, she brushed away a little dust, and picked at the bits of masking tape that sealed the memories inside.

A scent of old paper. Generally, Victoria liked the smell of old books, old paper. Fortunate, that, since she, David, and Dana among them generated an immense amount of paper litter. This was musty, though. She found a spiral notebook, full of facts about the _condottiere_ that she had somehow forgotten since her Italian Renaissance class. She found a book review of _Africa and the Victorians_ that she could hardly remember writing, and approved of on rereading. She even admired her handwriting. _God, did I ever write that neatly?_

Pointless to pore over every term paper or report. But she did anyway, feeling a little validated by every clever turn of phrase, and wincing at more than a few turns that were terribly pretentious or immature. _At least I've learned how to spell 'remuneration' since then!_

Past the piles of ratty notebooks was the little cedar box. Victoria smelled it before she saw it, and a host of memories was awakened by the woody scent. She held it close, and sniffed it curiously before opening it. There were the letters from Tom and Roger, grown distressingly yellow and faded. Ought she even to read them? She was distracted from them, though, by the object weighing them down.

Colonel William Tavington's little portrait was still in the same tissue that Caroline Hibbard had wrapped it in originally, the tissue that Victoria had hastily scrunched back around it when she was distracted so long ago by Real Life. The clock ticked off seconds before she remembered what the package was, and then she smiled in embarrassment, and pushed back the aged covering from the little treasure within. _Like unwrapping a mummy. _She felt a little abashed, remembering the long-ago infatuation, and even more recalling that the miniature was probably rather valuable and she ought to have thought to give it back to Dr. Hibbard. _Especially considering my precipitous departure from the halls of academe. She meant to give this to a scholar._

However faded the wrappings, the box, or Victoria herself, William Tavington looked just as eligible as ever. The portrait's colors were still brilliant, the man's gaze still piercing, his uniform impeccably scarlet. Victoria could remember, after a fashion, the desperate excitement she had felt when reading about him—how she had curled up in her carrel and read and reread the bits about him—how she had neglected the books she needed to read in order to look up every silly reference in every index she could find that mentioned him. Being obsessed with an historical figure could hardly be described as being "in love." Victoria had been "in love" with quite a few men since her school days; had been infatuated with actors and singers and ballet dancers; had been quite ridiculously obsessed with both T.E. Lawrence and Isaac Newton at various times. In the end, it was David that she fell asleep beside every night.

_Lucky for me too,_ she had long since concluded. _Probably about a zillion times a better lover than poor old Isaac, who died claiming to be a virgin. And Lawrence! Oh, please. Victoria, you are a pitiful victim of your fantasies._

Still, it was nice to see Tavington again. Nice to see all these old things again. She could shut her eyes and almost feel the stuffy, sheltered air of her private carrel on the tenth floor of the library, as she looked down through the little mullioned window into the Quad. It was a pleasant place to visit for a moment.

She opened her eyes, and shook her head. Her own library was none too shabby—over two thousand books, some of them old friends from her university days. No one could take her education away from her. It was still all there, up in her head, ready to come forth when called. It only wanted an opportunity.

The miniature was still in her hand. Victoria thought Tavington had a rather peremptory look about him, as if he had given her a command that she had impertinently ignored. _Wonderful eyes, strong, handsome nose—taken altogether, he's----_

"You're a _very_ handsome man, William Tavington," she said aloud, half teasing, half placating. She was about to say something else, when the room abruptly blinked out.

-----

Victoria sucked in a wild, gasping breath, and then was wracked by a sudden fit of coughing. She was still sitting, but not on the comfortable chintz sofa in her own library.

She was in a large drawing room—there was no other word for it. A large, formal drawing room with ceilings adorned with plaster medallions, with walls covered in blue satin. With her hand over her mouth to stifle her coughing, she stared frantically around her. The room was full of people, and the people were in full 18th century fashion.

"Are you all right, my dear?"

Victoria coughed again. An elderly lady approached, aided by an elaborate cane, and leaned forward solicitously. Cautiously too, for the lady's hair was a mad confection of powder and plumes that gave her another foot in stature. Her face was a clown's mask of white, with rouged cheeks, withered but reddened lips, and darkened brows and lashes. Victoria forced another cough, hiding behind her hand as long as possible, her heart hammering with nauseating speed, her face hot with confusion, and her fingers tingling icily as if in the grip of a nightmare.

_Oh, no, this isn't real!_

It seemed to be, though. Slowly she forced her hands away from her face, clenched them tightly around a spectacularly ugly fan resting in her lap, and she tried to breath deeply. The old lady eased herself on the settee next to her, and was looking at her, waiting for her to respond.

"Oh, yes, I'm perfectly well." Her mind fluttered desperately, a bird beating against enclosing walls."It was nothing, ma'am."

"A cough is never 'nothing,' you know, not even this time of the year in Charlestown," her companion on the lumpy settee asserted. "One day a cough, the next a consumption!" She tapped Victoria with her own painted fan. "Look at my husband."

Victoria looked around the room anxiously, trying to find a possible mate for the woman. _Well, that one's about the right age…_

"I _meant,"_ the dowager declared severely, tapping Victoria a little harder, "you ought to consider what happened to him! I was not implying that the late Mr. Breckinridge had risen from his grave to attend Lord Cornwallis' ball!"

_Mrs. Breckinridge. Check_. "Of course not," Victoria babbled. "This heat, and all these people—you know---"

The old lady relented little, and allowed, "Perhaps we have not been properly introduced—or well--I have such a time remembering people these days. You must be so good as to bear with my infirmity. Your name, my dear?

"Ahh—Wolf. Victoria Wolf. Mrs. Breckinridge," she appended hastily.

"How odd. I don't seem to recall any Wolfs. Are you a relation of the late General Wolfe, the hero of Quebec?"

"Very distantly," lied Victoria.

"Have I met your husband, Mrs. Wolf? Is he in the Army?"

"No, ma'am." She added more truthfully, "My husband is not alive."

The words, once spoken, disturbed her. It was literally true that David was not alive in the eighteenth century, but saying it aloud seemed like a disavowal of his existence. She sighed, exhausted by her own panic. She would have slumped, sitting there, but was held up by the boning of her gown and her corset. Two little stabs of whale-boned pain, one under each arm, reminded her to sit straight. And then she became aware of a sore spot over a rib, where the lacing of the corset was too tight. _Tight-lacing. Ick. The Powers That Be must think tight-lacing is cool. Or maybe this gown was designed for me as I was when Dr. Hibbard gave me the miniature. Not losing those forty pounds I gained with Dana hasn't done much for my looks. At least I'm in appropriate clothes, if I'm going to visit the eighteenth century. Cargo pants probably wouldn't meet the dress code tonight._

She fanned herself, genuinely hot, and hoped Mrs. Breckinridge would ask no more penetrating questions. She needed time to think

_Lord Cornwallis? All right, that narrows the time frame down. We're in Charleston. That narrows it down further. Sometime between the spring of 1780 and what—I forget—maybe the fall. I'm at a ball. In Charleston. In 1780. In the middle of the Revolutionary War. Well yes, that would explain the men in red. It would also explain the very elaborate gowns the ladies are wearing. At least I appear to be dressed for success…_

She looked down again. Rich coral damask, with floral patterned quilting on the pink silk petticoat. _Not bad_, she thought irrelevantly, stroking the sleek fabric of the skirt. She did a double take.

_Oh, my God! I never in my life had a bosom like that! It's so—so—so—out there!_

Desperately embarrassed, she wished for a shawl, a handkerchief—_a---a- fichu—yes that's right!_ Between the tight corset and low square neckline of the gown, her breasts were frankly exposed: white, blue-veined, absolutely as large as cantaloupes. They strained at the leash, ready to burst out of the dress and conduct a social life of their own. Victoria flushed hotly with shame, and then shivered with fear and confusion once more. Her companion, who had been looking over the other guests, complimented her.

"You look very nice tonight, my dear—"

_I look half-naked tonight! _

"---but a little too pale. You should wear more rouge. When one is young, one should always wear a great deal of rouge. And when one is older, one should wear much, much more."

"Umm—yes. Quite so." Victoria looked down at her hands. They were plainly the hands of a middle-aged woman. _Damn. If the PTB were going to send me to 1780 and go to the trouble of putting me in an appropriate gown, why couldn't they put me in my twenty-year-old body as well? I didn't look bad at thirty, either. This sucks big time. It's worse than chaperoning my daughter's prom. At least I could enjoy seeing her dressed up and dancing. This is just awful—and I'm going to spend the evening doing exactly what I did at prom. I'm going to be nice to all the older women, and let them talk to me about everything dull under the sun._

A man had entered the drawing room, and was standing there, looking thoroughly full of himself. Victoria's attention was riveted: she had recognized him instantly. Her elderly companion saw her interest, and edged closer to her.

"Oh, la! It's that Colonel Tavington," Mrs. Breckinridge whispered to her behind her convenient fan. "Shady, very shady! I'd stay clear of that one, if I were you. Not a penny left of the family fortune, and out to make a new one any way he can. Mrs. Simms says that his Lordship thinks him not at all the thing." She leaned forward to leer appreciatively at the new arrival. "Still, he _is_ a handsome brute, is he not?" She licked her withered lips salaciously.

It seemed safe to agree. "Yes, very handsome indeed." _You lecherous old biddy!_

"--And he's not wearing a corset, like some of them. Look, over there! He's bowing to the Simms. You can always tell if a man's wearing a corset by the way he bows. A fine figure, that." Then she smiled at Victoria, revealing what time had done to her teeth. Victoria was too dazed by her situation to flinch at the sight.

"Of course," simpered Mrs. Breckinridge, "it's all he has to barter. And he's no boy, at that. He might very well be hoping to catch a well-looking widow of good estate. A woman of a certain age…" She waggled her painted brows meaningfully, and then smirked, seeing Victoria's embarrassment. "And after all, you have a very lovely neck, considering…"

_Neck. Right. That's the current euphemism for these hooters. My God, they're like marine buoys. Like boulders_ _Like basketballs._ She felt herself grow hot again, and tuned Mrs. Breckinridge out, not wanting to think about the strange excrescences sprouting incontinently from her chest. It was worse that puberty, worse than the day she had appeared at school after getting her first bra. There was no time for that kind of maundering. Her situation was too dire.

_Caroline Hibbard knew about this! That's why she gave me the portrait! She must have used it herself! _Thinking that made her a little calmer. She pursued the idea. _Caroline used it, and she returned somehow, so I'm not stuck here forever! But what do I do? _She needed to get away from Mrs. Breckinridge, away from this crowd of strangers, and think quietly. She needed to be alone. Starting up abruptly, she nearly tripped over her petticoat. "Excuse me," she mumbled, "but I really don't feel too well. Do you know where I can go---?"

"The ladies' retiring room is down that hall on the left," Mrs. Breckinridge replied, looking concerned. "Should I call your maid to attend you, my dear?"

"No. No, thank you, Mrs. Breckinridge. I'm sure I'll be all right in a moment." She staggered, unused to the pinching, awkward monstrosities that passed for shoes_. High heels, too. Oh, thank you, Lord. That's all I need. _

To her exasperation, she found herself forced to mince daintily through the room. The impossible shoes, the long, heavy skirts, the suffocating corset, and the weight of her own hair, piled and arranged high on her head, made any other kind of locomotion impossible. In these strange garments, even maintaining her balance was fraught with difficulty. She moved very slowly, hoping she looked dignified, and not simply drunk.

_OK. Down the hall. I can make it— _She focused on her path, and refused to make eye contact with anyone. A black man in servant's livery passed nearby with a tray of drinks. She considered taking one, and considered again. _No alcohol for you, kiddo. And don't drink the water, for Heaven's sake. _

The servant approached her discreetly, holding out the tray, and not making eye contact with her either. _He's a slave!_ She realized, with a shock. _I'm seeing a slave. I'm being waited on by a slave. I'm in history. It's awful, but this could be a fascinating experience if I don't panic. _She gave the man a nervous smile and a shake of her head, feeling ashamed and a little unclean. He veered away, called over by a black-browed British officer.

Victoria trudged on, trying to put the next twenty feet behind her as quickly as possible. There! She was rounding the corner, and she could sneak a peek behind her. The room was full to bursting. People were sweating in their heavy clothes, and some were going out to walk in the garden she could see through the windows. _Good idea, if I can figure out how to walk that far. Maybe there's a bench somewhere. _

The lady's retiring room could be located by its smell. She opened the door and found a maid on duty, with a dressing table and bench, a basin of water, and a screen shielding an assortment of open and used chamber pots. In the heat, the reek of human waste was acrid and overpowering. Flies buzzed lazily around the room.

The maid, probably also a slave, hurried to curtsey to her. "How may I serve you, ma'am?" She was young and pretty: about Dana's age, with tip-tilted eyes, and lovely _café au lait_ skin.

"It's nothing, thank you," Victoria assured her. "I just needed to get out of the crowd, and see if my hair is still in place." Before she knew it, the maid had her seated at the dressing table, and was sizing up the state of her hair and makeup. Victoria braced herself, and then took a look in the mirror.

How strange to see her face in this alien guise! She was still herself, perhaps, under the paint. _The white is probably rice powder enhanced with powdered arsenic_, she remembered. Altogether she looked very strange—painted so white, with artificially pink cheeks and red mouth. Her brows and lashes were painted too, and not very subtly. _Not bad for my age. I'm still a nice-looking woman in her late forties. Perhaps in this time period they might guess late thirties or early forties, since I have my teeth and I don't have many lines. But no spring chicken, either. The gown is maybe a little too young for me. That's another thing that might mislead the locals. _

Not just her face was painted. Her neck, her ears, and her ridiculously prominent bosom were all whitened at least to some degree. It was softened by the kindly golden candlelight. Daylight would expose it as a horror.

_But of course, everyone will be long gone by sunrise. I hope I am, anyway. It was rotten of Dr. Hibbard not to prepare me for this._

She took a frivolous delight in the jewelry. It was rather nice: an intricate collar of tiny seed pearls for a necklace, and gold and seed pearl earrings displaying a multitude of tiny drops. She wore a heavy sapphire ring on her left hand._Perhaps my wedding ring? Or an engagement ring? Or just a ring? I forget which hand they wore the rings on in those days. Anyway, I've claimed to be a widow, so it doesn't matter either way._

The hair was strangest of all. Powdered hair did not look like normal hair. The natural sheen was gone, replaced by the dull flat white of the powder. It looked very unclean, having been teased and tortured into a high dome on her head, with pomade holding long trailing curls in shape. They tickled, brushing against her shoulders. The heavy powdering over the pomade was thick and a little clumpy looking. There was a slight crawling feeling along her scalp that Victoria prayed was sweat or the scratching of the huge quantity of hairpins, and not something more animated. Her hair looked like a bad wig, but it was obviously her own. She had no idea what the natural color might be in this place and time.___No Clairol. Maybe I'd better stick with the powder. Yech. And the style doesn't do a thing for me. No wonder women covered their hair with caps most of the time! _

The efficient maid tucked her hair securely in place with yet more pins. Victoria forced herself to look again, and get accustomed to the sight.___It's really not bad. But it would have been nice to be a babe again. No such luck. _The eighteenth century gown, the absurd, overdone___toilette_ reminded her of something—of fairy tales—of Cinderella! Desperately she tried to remember what Caroline Hibbard had said to her when giving her the portrait.

_____ "Your turn to be Cinderella, Tory..." That's it! Maybe it's all over at midnight, and I go back. That makes sense. What time is it now? _

"What time is it?" she asked the maid, still fussing over her.

"I reckon it's just a little bit past ten o'clock, ma'am," the girl replied, hushed and deferential.

Ten o'clock! Maybe she only had two hours to go.___I can do this. I can get through two hours. I can find a nice bench and do some people watching. I can take a leaf from Jane Austen's book and look for "quizzes." There should be plenty of them here, beginning with me! _

She began to worry.___Will two hours have passed at home? Will David be worried? Will he look for me and think I went shopping? _It was useless to fret over something she could not control, but it made her restless nonetheless.

The stink in the room was unbearable. There was a pretty bottle of something on the table. She sniffed it experimentally and discovered it to be rosewater. She splashed some liberally on the palms of her hands, soaked the lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket with it, and dabbed a little behind the neckline of her gown, and trying not the wash off the paint. The pleasant fragrance heartened her a little.

She got to her feet, resigned to walking in those primitive shoes. "Thank you," she told the maid, and lurched out of the room. The door closed behind her, mercifully moderating the smell. She felt sorry for the pretty young woman, stuck in a smelly toilet, waiting on overdressed old frumps like herself, unable to go to the ball___. __There's the real Cinderella. And here I am. Well, even the wicked stepmother was young once. I wonder what _her_ story was. _

She prepared herself to reenter "society." Some musicians were playing quietly, and she decided to go over to them and enjoy the music. A pair of ladies were coming the other way, saw Victoria, and smiled and curtseyed slightly. Victoria got a grip and managed a bob and a tremulous smile herself. The gown was not feeling any more comfortable. She spotted some empty chairs by the wall and headed that way.

___A_ red-coated back loomed up in front of her. She put on the brakes, swaying on her precarious shoes, and her skirts brushed lightly against the man who was blocking her way. Feeling the touch, the man looked around quickly, and saw Victoria.

It was Tavington! She looked up at him startled. He really was as handsome as his picture, even seen close to, even frowning darkly as he was. Perhaps the skin was not perfect, and he looked a little weather beaten, but his eyes were truly as blue as forget-me-nots, and Victoria's heart jumped with the excitement of long ago.

For his part, Tavington had seen nothing to interest him. He gave an almost imperceptible bow of wordless apology, and his eyes slid away from Victoria, seeking someone more appealing He walked past, back admirably straight; his rear view as handsome as his front

Mortified, Victoria felt herself grow hot, and hoped the paint would hide her flush. She paused there in the middle of the room, trying vainly to catch a deep breath. She had finally met the man she had dreamed of years ago, and he had turned from her without a word. Rationally, she knew it was silly to be so disappointed--she already knew that middle-aged women were invisible to most people--but so she was. Feeling very faded and undesirable, she sighed, and continued toward the empty chairs.

The musicians were a motley group. Five violins, a cello, two flutes, and an effortfully-played oboe comprised the orchestra. A bored harpsichordist did his best to hold it all together. Two of the violinists were carrying on a quiet conversation as they played. Victoria could hear enough to learn that there would be dancing soon.___That should be interesting to watch._ She recognized some of the tunes. They were not playing anything particularly high-brow: mostly popular airs of the period. It was actually very enjoyable to sit and listen and observe.

A servant came by again with more wine, and this time Victoria took a glass.___One, Tory_, she admonished herself. _____Just one._ She sipped the Madeira slowly, savoring its depth and sweetness. Dancing was announced, and couples began lining up for a reel. It was very entertaining: most of the dancers were very good. Victoria knew the tune, but did not remember the name.___Dancing is an important social skill in this time_, she remembered.

"Would you do me the honor, Madam?" asked a pleasant-looking older officer.

Victoria started: he was speaking to her! "Thank you—but no. My dancing days are over, I'm afraid."

He smiled and bowed, and left to hunt for a new partner. Victoria was a little put out.___If Dr. Hibbard had just told me what the damned portrait did, I would have taken lessons in 18th century dancing! I would have prepared for this! I would have come years earlier!_ There was no help for it now: she was destined to be a wallflower in the 18th century.

_____It's still nice to see it all,_ she consoled herself.At a slight distance, the hair didn't look so dirty, nor the face-paint so harsh. The gowns were lovely, and the uniforms dashing. Some of the girls were pretty, and some of the men quite good-looking.

It was nearly eleven. Possibly there was only an hour to go. She looked around the room. There was that old Mrs. Breckinridge. Somehow she had inveigled poor Tavington into her web, and she was talking at him, emphasizing her utterances with taps of her fan.___He looks annoyed,_ she thought to herself, amused. Mrs. Breckinridge was still talking. Tavington stopped looking annoyed, and both he and Mrs. Breckinridge looked over at Victoria, who was disconcerted at their combined gaze, and looked away at the dancers.

_____They must be talking about me. Why in the world would they?_ She hoped there was nothing odd about her appearance for them to laugh at or disapprove of. She concentrated on the dancers, who had moved on to an allemande. It looked like fun, and Victoria wished once more that she knew how to dance.

___S_he sensed someone sitting beside her, and was almost prepared when William Tavington addressed her. "I beg your pardon, Madam. Your friend, Mrs. Breckinridge, wished to introduce us, but could not catch your notice. The lady is too tired to come to you, and sent me to bear your company."

_____Prettily spoken._ Victoria regarded him with suspicion.___He wasn't interested at all before, why is he making nice now? _

Quietly, Victoria confessed, "I hardly know Mrs. Breckinridge. I have no idea what she might have told you about me."

He laughed, lightly, but with an uneasy undertone. "The usual thing, of course. That you were a charming lady, and that I ought to be acquainted with you. You are Mrs. Wolf, are you not?"

___S_he granted him a nod. "Victoria. Victoria Wolf."

"An unusual name. Let us hope it is propitious."

"Indeed. My friends call me Tory."

"Even more appropriate." She chuckled unwillingly. It really was a ridiculous coincidence. The conversation lagged. Victoria struggled to think of something to say.___"So, Colonel, killed any rebels lately?" No, maybe not the best talking point._ _It's like trying to talk to a jock back in college. Wait—he _is_____ a jock. This will never work. _

He was smiling at her, but a little unnaturally. There was a false, fixed look to the smile, like a mask worn for an audience. _____He doesn't want to be here. Maybe he's shy. Maybe there's someone he'd rather be with._ She was uncomfortable under his gaze. He was looking at her exposed breasts, pushed high by the corset.___I guess women show them off for just this kind of attention, _she decided, resigned to the embarrassment. But he was also looking at something else, and it made her curious.___What _is_ he looking at?_ She following his glance, and nearly laughed aloud.___My jewelry! Oh, my boy, you are so transparent!_ It was ridiculous, yes, but also rather offensive.

"Colonel Tavington," she began gently. "Colonel Tavington!" she repeated, to get his complete attention. He raised his brows in response, still smiling fixedly. "Colonel Tavington. Do you know how old I am?"

He had not expected the question, clearly, and fidgeted a little. His smile faded, grew tight at the corners of his mouth. "No, Madam," he answered tensely. "I am not privy to those secrets that ladies keep closest."

_____Hoo boy_. "Well," she said, as if to a small, stubborn child. "_I_ know how old I am. And I know that I'm too old for you. And I know that you would not be speaking to me if that silly Mrs. Breckinridge hadn't told you that I have money."

He was angry and embarrassed now, but too practiced in courtesy just to walk away. Victoria, to her surprise, was a little angry herself, but spoke softly, knowing that it would make her words sting the more. It was not his fault that she had met him twenty years too late, but she felt a perverse satisfaction anyway in punishing him for Time's mistake.

"Let's just pretend that you did not try to pay court to a woman of no interest to you—a woman whose existence you did not acknowledge until you were lured by the thought of a fortune. I may be older than you, but not so old, nor so inexperienced, nor so silly to let myself be deceived by a handsome face." She relented enough to throw him a bone. "And it _is_ a handsome face indeed. So I hope you make the most of it. Because it won't last." He looked away, lips pressed together in vexation, Victoria decided he had been savaged enough, and rose to leave, but paused for a final thrust.

"One last piece of advice. When you are complimenting a woman, do not let your gaze shift to her gown and jewelry, as if appraising their value. Not all women are idiots. Some are, though. Good luck to you."

He had risen as well, and gave her a stiff bow. She walked away, out into the garden, feeling a little ashamed of her tirade, but glad to realize that her former infatuation had dissipated quite entirely.

It was a beautiful night, and Victoria stopped in the doorway, enchanted. The gardens extended almost to the harbor, and tall ships were there, illuminated by the moonlight. The music from inside the house drifted over the lawn. A mild sea breeze cooled the air. It was a marvelous scene, quite unlike anything she had known before. Carefully, she made her way down the gravel walks for the best view. Other guests strolled about, flirting, chatting, negotiating, preening, conciliating.

___A_ little crowd at the doorway was louder than the rest. Victoria glanced over and saw a big man in a splendid uniform, surrounded by hangers-on. _____That could Lord Cornwallis!_ She took a closer look. The face was something like the portraits she had seen, but he wore an expression of polite irritation that nearly made her laugh. He did not appear to be enjoying his ball. Victoria found a stone bench in the shadow of a rose arbor. It allowed her to get off her pinched feet, and to watch the scene in comfort. There was a boat out on the water and some activity among the ships. She watched it intently, ignoring shrill voices approaching from behind.

"Lord Cornwallis!" "Your Lordship!" "My Lord!" were the rejoicing yelps from various voices, baying like hounds. Victoria turned that way and saw the big man (who evidently was indeed General Lord Cornwallis) trying to stroll in the gardens, and prevented at every step by people crowding up in his face, wanting his attention. There was a high, affected laugh, and Victoria zoomed in on the perpetrator. It was a woman, richly dressed, no longer young, who was tarted up in high fashion.

_____Good,_ Tory approved___. __There's someone who looks even more ridiculous than I do._

The sycophants passed by, and she ignored their fading clamor. Instead, she admired the old-fashioned roses on the bush beside her. She breathed in the fragrance.___Oh, that is _nice_____. When I get home, I'm going to see if David and I can find some of these._ Inside, the orchestra had begun to play a haunting minuet in a minor key.

"Madam, if you will forgive my importuning--?"

Victoria turned, and recognized Lord Cornwallis, bowing politely.

He smiled, and added. "May I share your refuge?" He had temporarily escaped the leeches, and looked tired.

She smiled, and nodded. "Of course you may, my lord." She managed the title quite naturally, she thought. She sniffed the rose again. The scent was voluptuously sweet and complex, far more fragrant than the tea roses she grew so laboriously at home.

"You are fond of roses, Madam?"

"Oh, very much. They are so successful at being beautiful, and we humans struggle in vain to compete."

"Well," Cornwallis pointed out, "no one expects them to do anything else. Mankind must perforce be more versatile."

She laughed. "A compromise, then. They shall be beautiful, and we shall be versatile, and perfume ourselves with a great deal of rosewater."

He laughed. "A just settlement indeed." He ventured, "A beautiful night."

"Very beautiful, my lord. How clever of you to arrange the weather so."

He laughed again, rather sourly. "Would that I had that power: and not only for a ball. My entire campaign would proceed far more expeditiously."

"Well, the ball is an excellent place to start. Everyone seems to be having a splendid time."

He looked at her keenly, at her face in fact, which pleased Victoria greatly.___Though, of course, I may look much better in the dark. _

"I am surprised to see a lady like you alone."

_____Whoa, is he coming on to me? I thought he was a widower. Yes, Tory. A widower, not dead. _

She was determined to keep up her end of this conversation. "I am surprised to see a great man like you allowed to be alone for even a moment."

"It is not easy—"

Not easy, certainly. There was an ecstatic whoop of "Lord Cornwallis!" He was discovered: and his toadies squealed with excitement, as they hurried to curry favor. "Lord Cornwallis!" Your Lordship!" " Lord Cornwallis!"

Cornwallis rose, with an expression of long-suffering patience. "I pray you excuse me, Madam."

Victoria smiled sympathetically. "Of course, my lord."

The older woman she had seen before seemed ready to grab at him in her excitement. She twittered, "Oh, my lord, we were all agog to hear more of your adventures in the dreadful backcountry—"

He was resolutely polite. "My dear Mrs. Simms, you are too kind…"

He walked away with dignified resignation, his entourage hanging on his every word. He was not allowed to get very far, for more and more eager admirers gathered. Victoria wondered how he could bear it. She relaxed as far as her gown allowed. There was another servant, with another tray of wineglasses. She considered taking one; but he was too far away, and she was too comfortable to get up, and too shy to call out.

Tavington emerged from the mansion, an attractive young woman on either side. The taller, prettier one had pearls in her hair and an utterly vacant expression. _____There, that's much more your speed, my boy. Go get her. _Tavington immediately saw Victoria sitting on the bench, and peevishly averted his eyes, with a faint sneer. She was feeling more charitable now, and regarded him as a bad little boy who deserved her indulgence.

Cornwallis was now completely surrounded and unable to move. _____Like Yorktown,_ Victoria reflected a bit sadly.___If he knew the future, would it hurt or help?_ His patience with those flunkeys really was admirable. Victoria decided that being trapped out in the open as he was might be preferable to being pressed against a wall of the house.___Mrs. Simms would pin him like a butterfly. _

There was a tremendous flash of light, followed by a thunderous roar. Victoria flinched and then got unsteadily to her feet. A ship in the harbor had exploded, showering the placid waters with sparks and debris. People exclaimed in horror, or were silent in shock, and in a brief pause the fatuous Mrs. Simms trilled, "Fireworks! Lovely!"

Victoria gave an unladylike snort of laughter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tavington, between his two belles, bolt his glass of wine, his eyes rolling in disgust.___Poor man. He's really not having a good evening. _She should not have been so hard on him. As Jane Austen said, handsome men need something to live on just as much as the plain ones. It wasn't his doing that his world was what it was.

Lord Cornwallis looked rather sick. Victoria was sorry that she had laughed, and wondered if there had been people hurt on the ship___. __An accident? Or terrorists? _

Bits of wreckage were still dropping into the harbor. Across the water, she could hear distant voices raised in alarm. The party was breaking up. Cornwallis had stalked away with some his officers to deal with the crisis. People were hurrying here and there, trying to learn more about the explosion. Women were shrilly demanding that their carriages be called.

Victoria wondered what time it was. She headed back toward the open door of the mansion. The orchestra had stopped with the explosion, and had not begun playing again. People were straggling away. A church bell tolled in the distance.

_____One…two…three… _

A servant surreptitiously drank the remains from the glasses of wine on his tray. He looked frightened when he realized that Victoria had seen him, but she gave him a friendly smile, and walked on.

_____Four…five…six…_

Old Mrs. Breckinridge was hobbling across the lawn, leaning on her stick and on a dutiful maidservant; complaining bitterly about the aborted ball, the cancellation of the late supper, and "those dreadful Insurrectionists!" The paint around her eyes had smeared across one rouged cheek: Victoria hoped her own game face was still intact.

_____Seven…eight…nine… _

Tavington was standing at the edge of the water, staring at the wreckage of the ship, and at the bustle of boats and sailors out there in the harbor. He looked frustrated, and angry, and tired. His upright posture slumped, and he buried his face in his hands for a moment. Victoria felt for him, but could not expect that her pity would be welcomed. She walked on.

_____Ten…eleven…twelve... _

Victoria sat on her cushy chintz-covered sofa in her library, holding Tavington's portrait. She blinked. The bright daylight dazzled her dark-adapted eyes. She flicked a glance at the clock. No time had passed. She put her hand to her cheek.___No, no arsenic-laced paint there._ She looked down. Her bosom had shrunk to Pre-Event proportions and was modestly clad.

_____"You fucking piece of shit!"_ David yelled from the crawlspace, banging metal against metal.

Victoria sighed with relief. Everything was as it should be. She looked down at the portrait again. Would she ever say the words again? Would they take her back to the ball? Would she live those two hours over and over and over again until she got them right? _Could_ they ever be right at this late date?

_____Of course they could,_ she scolded herself. _____Some of it wasn't very nice, but some of it was beautiful! And even when I'm as old as Mrs. Breckinridge, I won't be too old to enjoy a ball, or the music, or the people, or the roses. I shouldn't try to change history—and it's probably impossible anyway--but I can change myself. _I _____can be better: kinder to Tavington, kinder to Mrs. Breckinridge, kinder to everyone. Far, far, better to make everything I can of such a miraculous experience, than to whine because it can't be perfect. _

_____But next time—I'm dancing!_

___----- _

** Note: **Thanks to Jane Austen, James Barrie, Frank Baum, Elizabeth von Arnim, Luchino Visconti, P.D. James, a lovely dress illustration in___Masterpieces of Women's Costume of the 18th and 19th Centuries_ by Aline Bernstein, and DocM's photoshopped miniature of Tavington (somewhat altered for purposes of the story).

Fear not! Mary Sue will ride again!


	16. Mary Sue and the Walking Wounded, Part 1

_Our heroine plans a trip to a ball, and finds herself cast into an unexpected and intriguing world._

Romance/fantasy/time travel

Episode 11: Mary Sue and the Walking Wounded, part one

"The pink or the blue—the pink or the blue—the pink or the blue?" Emily danced around the dressing room, giddy with excitement. It had been a long time since she had felt so happy.

Her aunt said, "The blue is really more in period, Emily. The pink gown was the style about 10 years later. See, the line is more natural--"

"I don't care. It's prettier. I really like the embroidered vines on the sleeves and skirt." Emily pouted. "And it looks better on me."

"Well, that's true. But I thought you wanted to experience the period, and right away you want to be anachronistic!"

"Anachronistic! Aunt Sharon, nobody talks like that!"

"I do—haven't you ever heard of the Society for Creative Anachronism?"

"Well, duh," her niece laughed, holding the pink gown up to herself and gazing raptly in the mirror. "And that's what I'm going to do! Be creatively anachronistic!"

Her aunt sighed, defeated. "I wish I were going with you, Emily. You'll probably get in all sorts of trouble. In a crisis, remember you can use the reset function. No—_look_. It's right here on the fan, so don't lose it. It will take you right back here five seconds after you leave." Her niece was still making silly faces in the mirror, imitating what she fondly imagined was a _grande dame_ of the 18th century.

Emily put down the dress and hugged her. "I wish you could go, too. It would be so much more fun if we could go together! You should have the dorks work on a capsule for two!"

"Don't call them dorks, Emily!"

"Sorry—the geeks."

Her aunt gave her a reproachful look.

Emily hugged her again. "I'm really sorry. I know that sounds mean. Tell the guys I'm really grateful for this chance. I know I'll have a great time. After all, it's only for an hour. What can happen in an hour? Maybe I'll even want to go back someday!"

She finished getting ready, with her aunt's help, and the two of them left the dressing room and walked down the echoing hall to the Chronomicon. Emily knew she was lucky to have a relative working on the project. Ordinarily, only the rich could afford a Time Adventure.

Her aunt said hello to the tech on duty. "Hi, Fred! Everything OK with it today?"

"Yeah, yeah," the bored engineer replied. "It was kind of glitchy this morning, and She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed raised holy hell because she arrived two hours later that she wanted to."

Sharon looked worried. "Are you sure it's all right?" She hesitated, "Emily, maybe we should try this another day—"

"Oh, Aunt Sharon, lighten up! It's my birthday, and you _promised!_" That would work perfectly, Emily guiltily realized. Aunt Sharon had taken her in after her parents' accident, and was always trying to make her happy, trying to make things be all right for her. She was ashamed to take advantage of her aunt like this, but Aunt Sharon should know that nobody could fix somebody else's life for them.

It _had_ worked. Aunt Sharon had ceased her objections, and was listening to Fred's assessment of the situation.

He shrugged. "It seems fine now. She can always hit reset if something's wrong." He grinned at Emily. "You look great, kid. You'll knock the relics' socks off—if they wore socks."

Sharon frowned. "Don't call them relics---"

The tech rolled his eyes. "I know, I know—not respectful. Sheesh. Come here, princess." He helped Emily into the metal and fiberglass container. "Have fun!"

Emily smiled, "Thanks!" She called to her aunt, her voice muffled as the doors closed, "And thank you, Aunt Sharon! I'll see you soon!"

----

It was just as disorienting as her aunt had warned her it would be. Utter blackness, devoid of sound. She could feel nothing, smell nothing, see or hear nothing at all. Her body floated in emptiness. She wasn't even sure she still had a body. Sensory deprivation for too long could cause psychosis—and it had, in the early tests. Emily began to be frightened, when she thumped down in the corner of a brightly-lit room.

_All right!_ She thought excitedly. _Here I am in Charleston, 1780, just like those other girls. This is going to be great!_

The ballroom was splendid—just what she had hoped. People were dressed beautifully. It smelled a little odd. Aunt Sharon had told her enough about hygiene for her to have realistic expectations about that. The chandeliers, lit with scores of candles, were spectacular. Emily noticed that nobody wanted to stand under them for long.

_Oh, right, I remember. The wax will drip down and fall on your clothes. Ick._

She looked around for a place to sit. She had really done her homework, and knew the names and faces of the people who should be here: Cornwallis, O'Hara, the gorgeous Tavington—and quite a lot about the Tories in attendance as well. She had gone to an immersion workshop where she had learned 18th century manners and dances, so she felt she was ready to rock—so to speak.

She walked past the other attendees, smiling and nodding, listening discreetly to the conversations.

"—Monstrous! Monstrous! Those French have no decency at all!—"

"---But with an embargo, how shall I get French lace? No, I'm not being selfish---"

"---It will never last, mark my words! Their republican notions will soon cause anarchy—"

Emily walked past little groups of ladies and gentlemen, old and young. A little, just a little, she began to worry. She wasn't seeing anyone she recognized. Everyone sounded British. And when she looked carefully, she noticed that her gown fit in quite well with what all the other women were wearing. And why were they talking about the French, and not the Americans?

"---but to arrest their own King!"

_Oh, no! I'm in the wrong place! This isn't 1780! It must be later! They're talking about the French Revolution, and I hardly know anything about that! Oh---_

She found a padded bench by the wall, and sat down heavily. For several minutes, she considered what she ought to do. Should she press the reset button? It was her own fault, probably. The dress was a little "anachronistic," as Aunt Sharon would say, and had probably thrown the Chronomicon off. On the other hand, Aunt Sharon had called in a lot of favors for Emily to have this opportunity. Her boss had agreed to let Emily have an hour, but he had made clear that it was a big deal, and that Aunt Sharon would owe him for this. She'd be so disappointed. Emily didn't want her to feel that it had been for nothing.

_No, I won't hit reset. If I do, who knows when I'll ever get another chance to see the past? I'll just stay here, and tell Aunt Sharon what a great time I had._

She blew out a breath, and decided to make the best of it. After all, it was a grand ball, and she looked very nice. A pair of young men were looking at her, and they seemed to like what they saw.

_Maybe one of them will ask me to dance!_ She could follow the dancers quite well—they weren't doing anything she couldn't handle.

After awhile, an older gentleman approached her, bowed, and inquired politely, "Your pardon, Madam. I am Charles Pomfret, the Master of Ceremonies. I fear I do not have the honour of knowing your name, and some gentlemen here have expressed the desire of making your acquaintance."

Emily knew enough to curtsey in response. "Emily Norton, sir. How kind of you to take the trouble. This is a delightful ball."

The gentlemen seemed satisfied with her behavior, and Emily gave an inward sigh of relief. The two young men she had noticed giving her the eye came forward, and Mr. Pomfret made the introductions.

The taller, dark-haired one was Henry Elliot. His friend, shorter, blond, and really quite cute, was named Richard Fenwick. He was also a little more aggressive than his friend, and led Emily to the dance first, unobtrusively giving his friend Henry a shove.

Emily could hear their whispered bickering. Henry objected, hissing, "I saw her first, Dick!"

His friend smirked, "'All's fair,' as they say, old fellow." He rushed Emily along, and they found a place in the set. Emily had to concentrate to keep up. It was one thing to dance in class, but this was so much more difficult and distracting, that at first she could not listen to her partner's attempts to be charming.

"Elliot is a decent enough chap, but too dull a dog for a young lady of your sort! I said as much to my friend Lord Throop—do you know him? Oh, well, no matter. Throop's the best of fellows, rich as a Jew! He has famous dinners at his house here in Bath, but nothing like what he comes down with at his country place. I told him myself—"

Emily whirled away with the rest of the ladies, and was spared Mr. Fenwick's admonitions to his lordly friend.

_Bath! I'm in Bath. Well, that's interesting, too. It must be--what? The end of the 1780's, or the beginning of the 1790's. Oh, I don't remember! I didn't study this time! Anyway, this dance is fun—_

The steps of the dance returned her to her partner, who was still talking.

"—And he nearly broke his neck trying to keep up with me! I can tell you, Miss Norton, that not many riders would have hazarded that ditch, but I—"

She flashed him a quick, polite smile, as they wound through the maze of the other dancers. _Cute, but a jerk. Conceited, too. Maybe his friend won't yack as much._

"---And who would have thought that poor wretch would show his face at the ball? A glass of the waters and the hot baths are better for that sort—a poor, worn-out old fellow—"

They met once again, and chasséed down the line.

Emily interrupted the monologue. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear the name."

"What name?"

"The name of the man you were talking about. 'The poor wretch.'"

"Oh! Tavington, of course. My family knew his family, back in the days before his father went bankrupt, but we certainly don't claim acquaintance now! Imagine him turning up here. Probably hoping for employment, like all the old soldiers. This contretemps with the Froggies has all the antique war horses champing at the bit. Not for me, I can tell you: I have better things to do with myself than be food for powder! Live and let live is what I always say—"

_Tavington!_

"I'm sorry. Did you say he was here?"

"Who? Tavington? Do you know him?"

"No, but I've heard of him."

"Oh, Lord! Who hasn't! The stories they tell—not someone a gentleman would wish to know--and no money at all! Lives on his half-pay at some dreary place in Queen's Square, with only a single servant. Really too pitiable and ridiculous! When they get old and useless they should just be knocked in the head—" He smirked at her again, "But why should we talk about such a creature? Let's talk about you. When I saw you, I thought you might be Lady Maria Molesworth. She's a splendid girl—quite wild about me—"

Emily tuned him out. _What a silly, selfish pig. He sneers at a soldier being useless when he's just about the most useless person himself! I guess he has "other priorities!"_ She smiled mechanically at the proper intervals, and focused on dancing well. The dance ended, and Fenwick claimed her for the next, a slower allemande that would have been enjoyable if she had liked her partner better. At least he was a very good dancer, and she knew that the two of them were attracting admiring looks. She made another turn, and nearly walked into another girl, when she saw the famous—or infamous—Colonel Tavington, standing quite nearby, watching the dancers. Emily felt guilty, wondering if he had heard what her partner had said about him. He didn't seem upset. There was a faint, scornful smile on his lips, as he surveyed the crowd.

At last it was over. "Well, Miss Norton, shall we go it again?"

"No, thank you. I'm rather tired. I'll sit for awhile." She remembered to curtsey, and walked away without further ceremony. Guys were guys, wherever you went. And some guys were horrible jerks. Besides, she did feel a little hot after the dance, and wanted to find a chair and just fan herself. _Maybe that Henry Elliot will come by. Maybe he's not as stupid as his friend._

"Idiot," she muttered, still annoyed.

"I hope you did not mean me, Madam," a man's voice replied.

Emily looked up, startled, and found herself gazing into the ice-blue eyes of none other than Colonel William Tavington himself. She felt herself flush.

"No! Sorry! I didn't mean you! It was—" she broke off in embarrassment.

"Yes." He smiled, reflectively. "The Fenwicks have always been idiots. I believe it is emblazoned on their family arms."

She laughed a little, looking him over. Yes, he was older than she had expected. Well—he would be about ten years older or so than in the days of the American Revolution. He still looked quite nice, though his face was lined, and he seemed much thinner than she had expected. His hair was powdered, so it was impossible to tell if he had gone gray or not.

She still felt badly about her partner's insults. "It's just—I don't want you to think I agree with anything he said, just because I was dancing with him."

"But my dear young lady: nearly everything he said is quite true. My father _was_ a bankrupt; I _do_ live in Queen's Square on my half-pay; I _am_ hoping for employment. Only with the part about needing to be knocked in the head do I disagree."

"It was horrible of him to say that. And he shouldn't talk as if he's proud not to be in the Army!"

Tavington looked away, trying to hide his amusement. "A great pity that more people are not as patriotic as you. My life would be vastly more agreeable."

Emily tried to think of something nice she could do for him. "Would you like to dance?"

He stared at her dumbfounded. "My dear young---are you asking me to dance?"

"Yes—well—why not? I thought maybe you'd like to dance, and I like to dance, and then he'd see that I don't agree with him—"

Tavington laughed helplessly. "Calm yourself, dear young lady. We have not even been introduced—"

Emily curtseyed. "I'm Emily Norton. So—do you want to dance?"

He smiled, more gently, and bowed. "Miss Norton. I am delighted to meet such an original young person. No, I do not care to dance. It causes me some discomfort, but I would be honoured if you would take a turn about the room with me." He ceremoniously offered his arm, and she took it. With her hand thus pressed against his side, she could feel his ribs. He really was too thin. The thought of him, comparatively poor, being sneered at by rich and stupid young creeps, trying to find "employment," upset her. _Oh, I understand-- he's looking for an active duty posting in the army._

They made the circuit of the ballroom. Emily enjoyed seeing the beautiful gowns of the ladies, and the splendid and opulent clothes of the men: the plumes, the powder, the lace, the jewels. The large room, lit entirely by candles, glowed mellow and golden. Tavington was warm and supportive beside her, and smelled pleasantly of lavender and sandalwood. They paused, at her request, by the musicians, and Emily admired the instruments, and the music itself. She wished she had not had to give up guitar lessons. _Maybe someday--- _

Groups of men hung about the edges of the ball room, gossiping among themselves and pointing out the prettiest girls to their friends. There was a lot of talk about cards, and money; but whenever Emily and Tavington drew near any of the groups, they fell silent. Some gave Tavington stiff, polite bows: some ignored him completely. Many more stared curiously at Emily. As soon as they passed, she could hear the excited speculation behind her.

The room was getting very stuffy. Emily gratefully settled into a chair, and thanked Tavington when he brought her a glass of watered wine. He sat with her, still watching the throng in his slightly contemptuous way. Emily saw the dark-haired Henry Elliot looking for her, and she slid back into her chair, letting Tavington screen her from his notice.

He saw her stratagem, and laughed again. "Hiding from you admirers? If you want to dance, Elliot is your man—a very well-bred young fellow."

"No," she said firmly. "I'd much rather sit and talk with you."

"Well," he answered with some surprise, "that _is_ very original of you. And it is not every day that a charming young lady expresses a preference for my company, so I cannot cavil at it. But," he added more seriously, "I pray you, do not imagine me some misunderstood and saintly innocent. Whatever the gossip about me, the reality is much worse."

Emily knew that it was, but she could not quite square the dreadful accounts with this attractive, well-spoken man. "It was all a long time ago, anyway."

"True," he sighed. "But not so long ago that I do not suffer the consequences. Only two weeks ago another fragment of bone worked its way out of an old wound. I should not speak of such things with a young lady, but that is the reality of war. Some wounds heal but slowly, and some wounds do not heal at all."

They were silent together for awhile, and watched the dancers. The room was full of music, of colors and patterns, as the gorgeously dressed ladies and gentleman trod the steps of a stately measure. Emily realized that her hour would be over soon, and felt sad. She heard an affected laugh, and saw Richard Fenwick, in a crowd of other men, looking over at her and whispering. The young men looked at each other and sniggered, as boys will at a smutty joke. She lifted her chin and stared back at them challengingly.

"You will be talked about unpleasantly, Miss Norton," Tavington observed.

"I don't care. It doesn't make any difference to me what those stupid boys think about me. I'm having a very good time. Aren't you?"

He leaned back, eyeing her thoughtfully. "Yes, a very good time. You're a most fascinating and refreshing young lady, Miss Norton; and quite lovely. An enchanting gown, I must say."

Emily bounced in her chair. "You like my gown? So do I! My aunt thought I shouldn't wear it, and it did change things, but now I'm so glad I did!" She felt happy, happier than she ever had, happier than she had been since losing her parents, certainly. She felt a warm thrill deep inside her as she sat here with Tavington: excited, pleased, and comfortable all at once. She hated the thought of leaving, but she needed to find a quiet corner and make her escape.

"Colonel," she said, surprising herself with her own idea. "Colonel, I have to leave now, but I'll be seeing you again. You live in Queen's Square, isn't that right?"

He looked at her in surprise, and gave her a puzzled, pleased look. "But you could not call on me, Miss Norton. It is I who must—"

"No." She shook her head. "You wouldn't be able to find me. But I _will_ find you. It will be soon for you, even if it isn't for me." She was thinking rapidly. She could sell the house, and the cars, and she had all the money from the insurance. She would put her name on the list for a return trip, and while she waited—maybe for a year or two—she would learn all she could about this time and place. She would invest in gold, and find other ways to take her money with her. In this time she might have—what?—almost ten thousand pounds. She wouldn't be fabulously rich, but she would have enough to live on decently….

"What is the date?"

He replied in some confusion, "The twelfth of June, but I—"

"And the year?"

He was even more bewildered, and an uneasy smile crossed his lips. "1791. Why do you ask? Is this some sort of fashionable guessing game?"

"Never mind. You'll know some day."

She looked at him again. He thought she was pretty, and nice, and he seemed happy to be with her. She wondered how he would react when she showed up at his door, with all her belongings.

As it happened, it was some time before she found out.

-----

"A lady to see you, Colonel!" It was late afternoon, the day after the ball. Long shadows stretched across the muddy street, and the light provided by the two small, grimy windows in the little sitting room was fading.

Tavington rose from his desk, content to have a break from the drudgery of letter-writing. So far, his campaign to find a command had not gone well. Most old comrades greeted him politely, but told him firmly there was nothing they could do for him. A few, well in with the Whigs, had cut him dead. It was mortifying, but he must bear it and press on. He wrote everyone he thought might have influence: even some men that he had hoped never to have dealings with again. Lord Cornwallis he did not trouble: it was quite impossible to expect any help from that quarter. Lord Moira, however—

Setting such thoughts aside for the time, he straightened his coat, wishing to look presentable for his visitor, wishing he had allowed Parks to queue his hair, which was now only brushed free of powder, and unconfined. A brief, illogical hope flamed up: perhaps that mad and charming young lady he had met last night actually _would_ appear---no: better for her own sake that she have no connection with him--

A woman, well-dressed, and wrapped in a cloak of changeable silk taffeta in hues of blue and lavender, entered his shabby sitting room, as the maid announced: "Miss Norton!"

Pleased and somewhat alarmed, he bowed. He looked up and started.

"Miss _Norton?_"

"Yes, really. I told you it would be soon for you, but not for me." She turned around and silently dismissed the maid. Tavington was still staring. This woman, though still quite pretty, was at least ten years older!

"How is this possible?"

She seemed very different in other ways: less sure of herself; obviously wondering if he would show her the door. Tired, too, as if she had seen more than she cared to of life.

Abruptly, she said. "I was born November 15, 2025 in Louisville, Kentucky. On the night of September 14, 2046, I was granted a "Time Adventure" trip from the Mitsubishi Maclectronics Corporation. I spent one hour with you. At the end of the hour, I had every intention of returning soon, but Real Life, as they say, intervened. I had trouble liquidating my assets, and then I had trouble getting back on the list for another time trip. And then I had trouble putting my money in a form that would be usable in this time. And then my aunt developed cancer—"

Tavington was able to understand this bit. "I am most sincerely sorry—" 

"—And, of course, even when my turn came for a trip, I couldn't leave while she was sick. She died, and then I put my name on the list again. And waited. And here I am. My things are in the hall. Could I stay here?"

He was speechless.

"Because, you know, I don't know where else to go. I need to invest my money, I know. I wanted to come here first—"

He approached her carefully, as if she were an attractive but potentially lethal wild animal. "My dear Miss Norton. You say you are from the---_twenty-first century_?"

"Yes, that's right. Could I sit down? I had a rough ride here, and I was afraid I'd end up in the wrong time again."

Hastily, embarrased by his own discourtesy, he ushered her into a chair, and sat down himself.

Her story was incredible, but so detailed and circumstantial, and so beyond imagination that it must be true—or she must be quite mad--possibly a delusional monomaniac. He summoned Parks, his valet, to bring in her luggage from the hall. Inside a bag were guineas and banknotes totaling over fourteen thousand pounds. He felt the greatest concern for her—an unprotected woman walking about with such a fortune! She was able to discuss political events most lucidly, offering insights that seemed eerily prescient. And then, there was the matter of her face. This was not the difference of candlelight and daylight: this woman was most definitely the same woman, grown ten years older in a night.

Parks was sent to wheedle some tea out of his landlady. Miss Norton talked on, telling him of the progress of the French, of their execution of the King and Queen, of their future conquests, of their overreaching hubris, of their ultimate defeat. It was a brief précis, given with the air of one who had learned a lesson well.

She paused, when the tea came, and drank it gratefully, her eyes heavy. Tavington wondered if she would fall asleep in the chair. That would not be a good thing. He cast about, wondering what he could do for her, but curiosity drew a question from him.

"Are you not afraid of changing the past?"

She gave him a tired smile: a ghost of the delightful expression he had seen only the night before.

"No. I'm not afraid. I'll just be one more of the Unreturned."

The word sent a chill through him. "Unreturned?"

She shrugged lightly. "Accidents happen. People travel to the past and don't come back. One has to sign a waiver to go on a Time Adventure. Some say it's because the Chronomicon is faulty. I've come to believe that people simply don't want to return. I certainly don't. Everyone I've ever loved in my own time is gone."

"But if you change history—" The possibilities swirled through his brain: contradictory, perplexing, paradoxical.

"Colonel Tavington, I think all the Unreturneds have changed time. And when they do, they simply live in that time. There is not one universe, but many—the Multiverse, replete with infinite possibilities in infinite combinations. The very act of speaking to you of the future has changed the past. They won't be able to retrieve me now—so I don't need this."

She removed a little blue box from her reticule bag. She passed it to him, saying, "Don't touch the red button. It's the reset—an emergency recall signal. I have no idea what would happen to you if you did. We probably should just throw it in the fire. It might smell, though."

Tavington examined the odd device. Quite suddenly, he realized that he had ceased to doubt her story in the slightest. This was a woman from the future with extraordinary information about his time. She must know--- His mind reeled. She sat there, sipping her tea, looking very weary, and he was filled with pity for her, but utter elation for himself. She must know all sorts of useful, marvelous things!

And she was quite lovely, too. He had thought so, last night, but in a detached way. She was only a young girl—but this woman was a far better match for him. She had now grown mature, reflective: it was infinitely more appropriate. And she had endured ten years to be with him. He felt flattered by that, but also a little wary: it smacked of unhealthy obsession. Still, she was loyal and devoted; and Opportunity, at whose door he had knocked in vain for too many years, had suddenly appeared before him garbed in a handsome silk taffeta cloak. He would be a fool to turn her away.

But the proprieties must be observed, if only to protect her.

He sipped his own tea, thinking the matter through. Finally, he had the outlines of a plan.

"Miss Norton," he began, "I believe you. If you wish to stay, I am at your service. However, I think it would be a good idea for you to lodge at the White Hart Inn until we can make other arrangements." She began to protest, but he interposed gently, "My landlady would simply not tolerate a woman moving into my rooms with me. The White Hart is an excellent establishment, and they will accommodate you comfortably—far more comfortably than I can. I shall be able to visit you there without undue comment."

"That sounds very nice," she agreed.

"As to all of this money—it is very alarming to think of you walking about with it. We must get this safely invested in the five-per-cents for you immediately. It is too late in the day for it, so it must be dealt with early tomorrow. Again, I shall assist you. In fact, I would urge you to leave it here in my care." For that matter, the thought of guarding fourteen thousand pounds in cash overnight was quite nerve-wracking, but not so appalling as letting this vulnerable creature wander through the streets of Bath with it. Though he did not wish to reveal all his thoughts to her, he had already considered the situation and made his decision.

He must marry Emily Norton: and immediately. He would have the banns published, and within a few weeks they could be man and wife. If nothing else, the income from the fourteen thousand pounds, added to his own funds, would make all the difference in his style of life. An income of nearly a thousand pounds per annum was more than comfortable: it was respectable, liberal, and genteel. They could find a decent house here in Bath, or live in the country in an even better place. And then, they could consider what other possibilities his new wife's knowledge might afford him.

The poor girl had obviously had a difficult life: perhaps as difficult in its way as his own. She would not be sorry that she had entrusted her future to him. To have a pretty woman with a fortune throw herself in his way was so serendipitous an event as to render him forever obliged to her. Coming back, wounded and broken in health, from the war in America, he had surrendered any hope of marrying an heiress. And yet, here was an heiress—of a sort—offering herself to him. He could be hard, he could be cruel—and he had been, in his time. With the captivating Emily, however, he would be as uxorious as he liked.

He shrank a little from the contemplation of their more intimate moments. He hoped she would not be repulsed by the remaining traces of his terrible wounds. The whores and trollops who had been his only bedmates since the war had responded in a bewildering variety of ways: some tender and sympathetic, some heartlessly amused, some frankly put off by the thick, long scar tissue along his left shoulder and right side. Those injuries were the worst, but not his only such disfigurements. There was the shallow trough of the bullet wound on his left side, the long pale scar across his breast, the ridges of old slashes on the outer side of his left leg, and the livid marks of bayonet stabs on his right hip and buttock. His face, remarkably, had never been permanently damaged, or at least not by the hand of war. Time, ill health, stress, and public contumely, however, had not withheld their darts. He was, to put it mildly, damaged goods in every sense of the word. Were he were a good man, he would have refused Miss Norton, and sent her back where she belonged.

But he was not, as he had long admitted to himself, anything resembling a good man. He wanted pretty Miss Norton. He wanted her gentle, lovely person; he wanted her money; he wanted a better home than these cramped, shabby rooms; he wanted a companion to ease his loneliness; he wanted a woman who would be his to enjoy in peace, honour, and security; he wanted to taste the affection she so openly and guilelessly offered; and he was intensely curious about the future. There would never be boredom in their marriage, certainly.

All this revolved through his thoughts, while they finished their tea in silence. For her part, Emily was feeling great relief. Tavington believed her story. He was willing to help her. Whether anything more would come of it, she couldn't be sure. Well, she could work on him tomorrow. Clearly, he thought she was still pretty, at least. Maybe that would be enough. She looked him over. He was now dressed casually in a rather shabby green coat, his thick, silver-streaked hair heavy on his shoulders. _He should always wear it that way,_ she thought. She was so tired of her life in the 21st century. She was tired of being alone, and tired of her dead-end job, tired of being afraid of the endless political violence; tired the weird weather; above all, she was tired of the breakneck pace of her so-called life. She just wanted to stay here, with this quiet, thoughtful man, sipping cups of tea in a room where no roar of machinery, no crude, threatening shouts, no ringing telephones demanded her attention.

"I suppose I should go," she said.

"Not alone," he replied. "I shall see you to the inn. Allow me a moment." He rose, and rang again for the valet. Parks appeared, and Tavington and he disappeared into the bedchamber. Emily waited, her mind curiously blank, satisfied to have someone making the decisions for her. After a few minutes the men emerged; and Tavington's hair was neatly arranged in a queue, and his clothes were far less shabby. He picked up the bag of money and locked it in his bedchamber; and directed Parks to carry Miss Norton's other luggage, and follow them to the White Hart, where Tavington would see that she was provided with suitable accommodations.

She leaned on his arm, as exhaustion began to sweep over her in waves. The warmth of him, the smell of him, lavender and sandalwood, made the intervening ten years since last meeting him seem illusory. She hardly saw the buildings around her, as they walked through the filthy streets to the welcoming doors of the inn. Tavington handled the negotiations, while she stood passively, wondering if this could be a dream. He and the innkeeper had come to terms, and a servant was told to show her upstairs to her rooms.

Tavington bowed a polite farewell. "I shall call for you at nine o'clock tomorrow morning," he assured her. "We shall visit a reputable lawyer I know, and have your money safely bestowed."

"Thank you," she answered listlessly. She was so tired, and a little frightened as well. Tavington was the only person on earth she knew, and what if he took the money and disappeared overnight? She was too tired to worry about it. She curtseyed a response to his bow, and followed the deferential servant up the stairs to her current place of residence in the world of the 18th century: a suite of rooms at the White Hart Inn.

---- 

**End of Part 1 of 2**

**Notes**: I borrowed the term "Unreturned" from the intriguing Polish science-fiction film _Avalon_. The term means something rather different in the film, however.

Yes, I am in the process of writing a sequel to _The Door Into Time_. I needed to write this story first.

Thank you to all my reviewers. Your support means a great deal. And I do heed suggestions.


	17. Mary Sue and the Walking Wounded, Part 2

_Our heroine gets exactly what she wanted, and finds that there is a price to be paid for it…_

Romance/fantasy/time travel

Episode 11: Mary Sue and the Walking Wounded, part 2

Emily was still tired at nine o'clock the following day. She had spent a sleepless night, between the disorientation of being in 1791, and the anxiety about Tavington's reliability. Breakfast was brought upstairs to her, and she picked at it, unable to find anything that looked like food to her. Her heart was fluttering unsteadily, and she sat in an exhausted stupour, wishing everything were over and resolved, when the chambermaid pertly announced the arrival of "Colonel Tavington."

She looked up, and had never seen such a blessed sight in her life. He was there, in her room, bowing and smiling, ready to be of service to her. Unaccountably, her eyes filled with tears, and she could not get up to greet him. Seeing her distress, he swiftly crossed the room, and sat down beside her.

"My dear Miss Norton—are you quite well?"

"No," she quavered. "I was so afraid you wouldn't come. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I must look awful."

"You look very beautiful," he told her decisively, "but a little tired. Let us go out and attend to our business, and then you can return here and have a long, restorative nap."

He had the bag of money with him, and he expeditiously helped her with her cloak and escorted her downstairs. She was so fatigued, and so relieved, that the very pavement of the street looked like an inviting place to lie down and rest. The Colonel knew where he was going, and helped her along, her arm in his, as they made their way through the picturesque Georgian streets of Bath.

Mr. Grimsby, the lawyer, was silky and efficient; and rather a sycophant. His fawning was wasted on Emily, who was too exhausted to respond. She signed where she was told, and then was told she understood it all. Tavington looked at her anxiously, realizing how completely spent she was.

"Only a little more, Miss Norton," he cajoled her. At last they were finished, and she smiled at the lawyer's compliments without really hearing them. Tavington took her arm again, and they returned to the inn.

They went upstairs, and no sooner had they entered her rooms, than she headed blindly to bed and threw herself down, asleep instantly. Tavington followed her, rather bemused, trying to protect her from injury. He stood looking at the slumbering, defenseless woman; contemplating violation; then he sat down on the bed beside her and removed her dirty shoes. These he set down noiselessly by the bed. Her cloak was unfastened and slid carefully from beneath her. More he dared not attempt. He slipped a pillow under her head, and bent to take a light, lingering kiss from the slightly parted lips.

He found pen and paper and left her a note, telling her that he would call again tomorrow; and that she ought to rest and have a good dinner. Strangely light of heart, he left the rooms; his mind turning to his prospective bride's need for a maid.

-----

So it began for Tavington: and so, in a way, it ended for Emily. No matter where you go, as they say, there you are. She had wanted someone to care about and to care for her. She had never had any real ambition, other than for love. That she certainly had. Tavington nearly smothered his Golden Goose with attentions.

True to his word, he called the following morning. She was still at breakfast, and pressed him to join her. Nothing loath, he sat down to the capital meal a first-rate inn could provide. It did them both a great deal of good, if only because it was more pleasant for them both to share a meal with another. They took their time, savoring the eggs, the marmalade with the delicious bread, the strong, fragrant tea. Emily was less tired, but still feeling a little hazy, uncertain where the borders of reality lay. So much of this seemed like a dream.

Tavington proposed a walk. "Miss Norton, you have seen little of Bath, and need air and exercise." Truth be told, he needed the same. Her hand found the crook of his arm as if by long practice.

"You should see the Royal Crescent, at least," he suggested. "Quite elegant." The time it should have taken was extended by Emily's pleasure at looking at the River Avon, and her curiosity at every little shop they passed: A chandler, a milliner, a bootmaker, a silversmith, a haberdasher. He was in no hurry, and let her dawdle all she liked. Squiring Miss Norton was the most important thing he could conceivably do with his time. She paused longest at the window of an apothecary-perfumer, peering in to see the curious jars and bottles.

"Would you like to go in?"

She was shy, but with a little encouragement, was persuaded to take a closer look. She, it seemed, had a weakness for perfumed soap, and insisted on Tavington giving his opinion. She finally settled on a box of fine Castile soaps, scented with a mixture of rose and verbena; and a pretty blue bottle containing the same essence. To her surprise, the shopkeeper was perfectly willing to deliver her purchase to the White Hart. As they walked along Gay Street, Tavington's own eye was caught by a little jewelry shop. He paused before the door, and took a breath.

"Miss Norton, this may not be the best place for such a question, but I understood—that is, you implied—" He took another breath, and said baldly, "Would you do me the honor of being my wife?"

He groaned inwardly, feeling an utter fool. _In the middle of a noisy, crowded street! Could I not even wait for a quiet moment alone with her?_

Emily, on the other hand, was neither surprised nor offended. It seemed more and more a strange, happy dream; and in such a dream, it was hardly astonishing that her most fervent wish, her long-cherished fantasy, would come true.

"Of course," she answered, with a sweet and ready smile.

Tavington smiled nervously in response, wondering how such an inept proposal could meet with success. She seemed truly enamored of him. It was a puzzlement: a pleasant puzzlement, but still rather extraordinary. Eleven years ago, he had been quite handsome, it was true. Ladies had pursued him, though they might not encourage his acquaintance with their unmarried daughters. With his public disgrace and terrible injuries, those days had seemed gone forever. But he was desirable in the fair Miss Norton's eyes, and that was all that mattered.

"Very well," he declared, taking the initiative, determined not to let this last blessed chance slip through his fingers. "Let us see if we can find a ring that suits you."

She was even more timid about this, hardly daring to express a preference. He found one of gold, prettily worked with a garland of flowers. She smiled in perfect accord. It fit her, and Tavington urged her to wear it.

"We shall be married soon enough." He would call on the parish vicar later today, and see to the banns. Three weeks would be all the engagement they would have, and to his agitated spirits, three weeks seemed to stretch out interminably.

Leaving the shop, he covered his own anxiety with practical matters. On making inquiries, it appeared that Emily had brought very little clothing with her—some linen, a few toiletries, and clothing suitable for a ball or other evening's entertainment—and all the fripperies incumbent upon it.

She explained, "I was only supposed to be gone for a night, and told them I was going to see Bath and go to a ball, and come back the next day. I couldn't really take much of anything. The money was for gambling, I told them. But I really don't have a lot of clothing other than the dress I'm wearing."

Tavington smiled. "Well, I should like to see you in your pink gown again."

She grimaced. "I'm sorry, but that's not possible. I never owned that gown to begin with. It was the property of the company, and I had to return it. And also—remember that it's been ten years. It's long since worn out. I wanted to keep it, but I wasn't allowed."

"It is too bad."

"Well," she shrugged, "My new dress is very pretty, anyway—sort of a lavender. I suppose I'll need more clothes eventually."

"I should say so. We had better bespeak something immediately." Further down the street was a dressmaker, and Tavington insisted they stop and go in. They were there for two hours, and Tavington was shown a chair, and sat patiently while Emily was measured, and then ordered a sensible wardrobe: two day gowns, one of a flowered silk, and one of striped; and a serviceable blue broadcloth for her traveling dress (absolutely essential, as Tavington pointed out, whether they were walking or traveling by coach). Less grand purchases were made as well: petticoats and nightgowns, caps, stockings, garters, and shifts. The seamstress recommended reputable shops where Emily might purchase a more practical traveling cloak, find more comfortable and fashionable corsets, and see some very pretty hats.

But all those things, Tavington decided, could wait for another day, along with their plans to see the Royal Crescent. His lady's energy was plainly flagging, and he gave her his arm back to the inn. Tea was sent for, and she revived, quite happy about her new clothes.

_Wedding clothes,_ the thought flashed through Tavington's mind. _I never thought a lady would be buying her wedding clothes on account of me. How extraordinary. How pleasant._

She was so revived, in fact, that when Tavington brought up the issue of the future she had come from, Emily was not only willing, but eager to discuss it. He sat her down at a writing table, with pen and paper and ink, to write down everything about the future that could be of assistance to him.

"Where should I begin?" she asked.

He thought, and the decision was an easy one. "With money matters."

She had had ten years to do her homework. While she had not been allowed to bring books, or references, or anything that could not have existed in 1791, she had laid up great stores of information in her memory. She had known this knowledge would be valuable, and was able to give him specifics about lucrative investments. Within a month, using his own few hundred pounds of savings, he was able to increase the sum five-fold.

She wrote: the history of London and European finance in the last decade of the 18th century; the history of inventions and patents; the recipients of various government contracts; the colonial expansion into the rest of the world, and the various resources discovered---all this flowed from her pen.

He invested: and their small fortune was soon on course to become a far greater one.

Thus, the following three weeks for Tavington and Emily were busy. He came every day. They would spend the mornings in writing and business, and the afternoons in walks, and making purchases for their new household, and in simply getting to know one another better. Tavington showed her all the charming sights of Bath, none of which he had previously thought charming. Now it was all very pleasant to stroll, to visit the shops, to take the waters; not alone, but in the company of a pretty young woman who cared for nothing in the world but him. She knew quite a bit about his world, and yet every so often would be touchingly nonplussed about some everyday detail that he had taken for granted all his life.

Within a week, he had found a lady's maid for her, a sweet-tempered young woman named Annie Mills. Emily was too kind to her of course: that was her nature. Tavington had a private word with the girl and explained what the consequences of indiscretion and disloyalty would be. She never gave Emily any difficulties, and hardly opened her mouth in Tavington's presence. On his arrival each day at the White Hart, Annie was sent to fetch them some refreshments, and was then allowed to spend the rest of the day as she liked until he left after dinner-time.

As the days passed, Tavington and Emily grew closer, and he began to partake in the delicious intimacies that she offered naively, it seemed, as a matter of course. On the very day he had given her the ring, when he had gone to take his leave of her, she had startled him by putting her arms about his neck and kissing him whole-heartedly. He responded, of course; rather taken aback at her boldness, but perceiving a certain trusting innocence in her. She simply thought nothing of permitting him every liberty. Tavington assumed that such was the custom of betrothed couples in her time. He had never been happier. These intimacies, pleasurable in themselves, must bind her faster to him, and that too was desirable.

He was cautious at first, wishing neither to frighten her away, nor to repulse her. She was so naturally seductive, however, so very artless the next day as she expressed, in between kisses, the wish that he should remove his coat. Gradually he was relieved of other garments, keeping on his soft linen shirt as long as possible. Emily unburdened herself as well, lovely as Eve. Sprawled comfortably on her wide bed at the inn, she finally eased this last obstacle over his head, and silenced his embarrassed explanations in various pleasurable ways. Curious about his scars, but not disgusted by them, she simply asked sensible questions, and then resolved on the equally sensible solution of his taking the left side of the bed, so as not to hurt his left shoulder, when he would turn on his side to embrace her.

She had scars, too, it was revealed. Not as terrible as his own, but all mementos of painful experiences. She turned on her stomach, revealing not only very pretty flanks, but a rough ridged patch along one side from being struck by flying glass in a bomb explosion. Under one arm were the red remains of severe burns that had been suffered in the same "airplane" accident that had killed her parents. She lifted the heavy honey-colored locks away from the right side of her neck. A fine white line showed where a "mugger" had held a knife to her throat.

"He only really wanted money, luckily. I threw a big wad of cash down on the ground, and when he lunged for it, I got away. It happened a few days after my aunt died. I wasn't thinking clearly, or I would never have let my guard down. She had suffered so much for so long. And then, at the end, the doctors were too busy keeping her alive a few more seconds to let me say goodbye to her. It was horrible—it was inhuman. That's about the time I put my name on the list for the last time. I decided that if I could get away, I was never going back there."

"I should say not, indeed. What an abominable place." He pulled her closer, and they lay in playful abandon, teasing and touching and whispering. She need have nothing to fear, with him to protect her; and he need fear nothing at all, now that she knew the worst, and still wanted him.

Cocooned in her cozy rooms, with her grateful and ardent lover, it was more than ever a dream to Emily. William seemed to know what she wanted before she herself did. When he was with her, he filled all her senses and all her attention: when he was away, she really thought about very little, and was half-asleep and dreaming of his return.

Within a month they had left Bath behind, and all his disappointments there. They had stayed only long enough to be married; and then how odd it was, as they left the church, to come upon Mr. Fenwick and Mr. Elliot, out for a ramble before going to the Pump Room.

Elliot smiled and bowed slightly; Fenwick affected not to know Tavington. On seeing an attractive woman on the Colonel's arm, however, he looked again. The Tavingtons passed by, not caring whether he acknowledged them or not. Fenwick and Elliot looked at each other, and then tried to catch another glimpse of the lady, thinking that they recognized her. In the next moment, they realized they must have been mistaken, shrugged, and resumed their walk.

With his improved income, Tavington had been able to secure a cottage in the countryside not far from Richmond. Before leaving Bath, more servants were engaged: a cook, a groom-gardener, and a stout maid of all work.

The cottage's location was satisfactory: it was close enough to London for his business in the City to be conveniently accomplished. Thistledowne Cottage was not very large, but was new-built of grey stone, rather pretty, had its own little orchard and outbuildings, and was set in an unusually spacious and well-laid out garden.

Emily adored it at first sight. She had dreamed of just such a place; and in her current dream-like state of unreality, it was perfectly appropriate.

"It's lovely!" she cried, hardly waiting for the carriage to come to a stop before wanting to get out for a closer look. It was far larger than any home she had ever known, really three stories high if she counted the upstairs garrets where the servants would live. Tavington paid off the driver of the hired dray that had transported their belongings, set the servants to unloading the luggage, and escorted his wife indoors. It was not much, for one who had grown up in the gloomy old splendor of an abbey, but it was infinitely better than hired rooms in a lodgings house. The rent was reasonable, given their circumstances; and it was better to start with something small and perhaps move on to a better place, than to follow his father's example in the opposite direction.

He particularly enjoyed having horses again. There were three: a quite nice thoroughbred of his own, a strong and handsome beast to draw their little chaise, and a sound road horse for Parks to ride when accompanying him to London. Tavington had missed riding every day, and soon regained his old skill. He felt better here in the country: fitter, younger, more himself. When he had returned from America after the war he had been very ill indeed. For over a year he could hardly leave his bed, and had nearly succumbed to ennui and despair. Courage had paid dividends after all, for who would have guessed in those miserable dark days that he had so much to live for?

For Emily, the days flowed one into the other, as did the nights. She had her pretty doll's house, her flower garden, her attentive husband. Many months passed before she realized that there might be a price to pay for it all. It was very much like a vacation: or more properly, a daydream about a luxurious all-inclusive vacation. One morning, when Tavington had gone to London on business for few days, she had a painful and heavy period, and it rained; and her vacation seemed to have become an overlong stay at a very dull historical theme park.

For a few hours, she awoke from her dream-like state, realized that she had nothing to do, and that her life was far from perfect. She missed music, and films, flush toilets, hot showers, and proper sanitary supplies. The dull, stodgy food never varied. She had no one to talk to but the servants, and they were too well-trained to converse freely with their mistress. There was no privacy: all her servants would know from the laundry that she was having her period, just as they knew whenever she and William had made love the night before. She wrapped herself carefully in thick cotton bandages, and settled down in bed with a book, a little dissatisfied with her situation.

But Tavington returned that very afternoon, and was so kind and concerned. He had brought her a present: an exquisite necklace of gold filigree set with amethysts. He lay down on the bed beside her and talked to her delightfully, telling her all about the odd people he had dealt with in the City. He laid a warm, strong hand over the place that was cramping; and petted and caressed her until she boiled briefly to a climax, and then sank into the sleep of the just.

And so, she drifted away from reality, back into her happy waking dream. Oh, there were alarms and incursions: one day her maid had the toothache; what passed for a dentist was summoned, and poor Annie Mills passed an hour of unspeakable agony as the ignorant, dirty man tore out the abscessed molar with rusty pliers. The stench was shockingly putrid, the girl fainted, and Emily spent a number of days in disagreeable reality, tending her servant, and doing her best to see that she did not develop an infection due to her ordeal. Emily herself caught cold in October, and endured a miserable two weeks.

In January, however, she awakened permanently. She had been feeling out of sorts, with swollen breasts that seemed to threaten a painful and prolonged menstrual period. She was more tired than usual, and all the food seemed particularly nasty and unappetizing. Time passed, and no period arrived. Instead, she began to experience what she could only interpret to be heartburn, and food seemed more revolting than ever. The day of reckoning came at last; a day so cold that even sitting before the cheery fire in the drawing room she felt chilled to the core. It was not snowy, but grey and wet, with a heavy, baleful mist hanging in the frosty air.

She was pregnant. She came to herself, realized where she was, and what her condition could mean. She had fled the 21st century to escape the hurts she had experienced there, but something equally dangerous had crept up and taken her unawares when she thought herself safe. Almost panicking, she sat and breathed deeply for a few minutes. _I'm pregnant, in the eighteenth century. Women die in childbirth in this time. Medical science is rudimentary. Some idiot pretending to be a doctor may try to bleed me, or starve me, or give me poisons like mercury or laudanum, and call them medicine._

Sitting down at her dainty little writing desk, she began writing out everything she could remember about hygiene, about childbirth and childcare, about first aid, and about proper medical practice in general. At least her husband knew her secret, and would certainly believe her claims. His success in the financial and political realms had given her complete credibility with him.

He came in from his morning ride, glowing with the pleasant exercise. He leaned down and gave her a kiss, and he had not had time to straighten up again, before she blurted out, "I'm pregnant."

Tavington was overjoyed. "My love, how marvelous! Have you had the apothecary to see you? We must set about fitting up a nursery." His happiness was not only due to the blessed event, in fact. He had just spent a remarkably successful week in London. Knowing what was about to happen gave him a tremendous advantage in stock-trading: he had made a little over thirty thousand pounds in four days. Judiciously, he had been lending money to some very influential men, fully understanding that they could not pay their debts to him. To save them embarrassment, he had generously offered to tear up their notes, if they would grant him a trivial favor of two. Only too relieved and grateful, they introduced him to friends, obtained membership for him in their clubs, and gave him access to even more highly placed individuals. Tavington was slowly and deviously rehabilitating his name.

Emily saw that he was happy. It irked her beyond words that he did not seem to grasp the implications of her situation. She turned from him angrily, and began pacing the room. "Don't you understand? I'm in danger! I'm in danger!" She whirled on him, crying, "I really could die!"

Instantly sympathetic, Tavington gathered her against him and held her tightly. "My darling, you must not give way to such terrible notions! You are a healthy young woman and you will have the best of care. Think how delightful it will be to have a little one of our own!"

She leaned against him, but avoided putting too much weight on his sensitive left shoulder. "Medicine here is so primitive compared to my time! I've been writing everything I remember, but all sorts of things could go wrong!"

Interested, and hoping to calm her by discussing the medical issue in a more objective way, he asked to see her notes, and was intrigued by the information in them. He would talk to the midwife and to the apothecary, Mr. Jenkins. Some of what his wife wanted could be managed—the boiled instruments, the meticulous cleanliness. If their local practitioners proved obdurate, he would find others who would not be. His Emily was too precious to risk to the incompetent.

With affectionate words and lavish promises, Tavington succeeded in soothing her most immediate fears. Never again, however, was she to fall back into her Dreamland. Now there was too much to do. She was not a very good seamstress, but Annie was; and they spent hours getting all the baby's things ready. She could do plain stitching fairly well, and stuck to that; letting Annie cut out and put together darling little garments, including a delicately embroidered christening gown.

Now and then, the same sickening fear would lash at her, leaping on her from ambush as she sewed, or lay awake at night, or sat at dinner, conscious of the changes in her body. She might die—either in labor or in the weeks that followed of some gruesome infection. When she first felt the baby move she actually felt happy; but then a new horror arose—child mortality in the late 18th century. Her baby could die of a multitude of complaints that no longer threatened children in her own time: measles, diphtheria, whooping cough, polio. Obsessively, she kept writing, trying to draw every fact out of her memory. When her child was old enough, she would make sure he or she was inoculated against smallpox. _At least there's that! _As part of her time travel preparations, she had been immunized against that disease, as well as against a battery of other killers: typhus, tetanus, cholera, malaria, several forms of influenza. If only she could have brought the vaccines along!

_Good nutrition is key,_ she wrote, in a carefully legible hand. _Many children die not from disease itself, but because the disease weakens them in other ways. Clean water is essential._

Their own water supply was satisfactory: a deep well on their own property that she now saw was scrupulously kept covered when not in use. She visited their little dairy and learned what the maid did with the milk._ It will have to be boiled before the baby drinks it. Permanently_. _Until he or she is eighteen, if need be._

All of which brought her to the sticking point. The baby would have his best shot if she nursed him herself. She was not excited at the prospect. She had heard too many women complain about the trouble, the discomfort, the inconvenience it could cause. She might not be able to do much about the discomfort, but at least she was not a working mother. She was at home, with nothing much else to do. A nurserymaid she could agree to—someone to change the baby would be a godsend. She could nap when the baby napped. She would do her best to give the little guy every edge to assure his survival. Furthermore, it would provide her with the only kind of contraception she was going to have. If she could nurse her child for a full year, chances were reasonable that she would not become pregnant during that time. _Why, oh, why didn't I bring along some birth-control patches? They're allowed, because no one in this time could possibly imagine what they are! _She could understand Tavington wanting a child—even two—but more than that was simply playing Russian Roulette with her life. _I've been living in a dream world! I must have been out of my mind!_

She did not cease to love her husband. He was still as kind and considerate as ever. And there was this: she knew herself important to him in a way that she had never been important to anyone else since losing her family. She was one of the Unreturned: she knew that her disappearance from her old world mattered no more to it than a teacup of water scooped from the ocean. But here in her new home, she was everything to Tavington. She was the foundation of his new prosperity and comfort, the source of the information that kept him on top of things during his mysterious trips to the City. Nor did he resent her for this; but he seemed to have accepted it as part of her dowry, as essential to their domestic partnership. She had provided the basic funds and the data: he was putting it all to work.

-----

She survived the birth, and the next one, two years later as well. There were moments when she thought she'd rather die, when the pain was so terrible that nothing could be worth it—but unlike the heroine of a romance novel, she never fainted into blessed oblivion. She was miserably conscious and suffering for all the hours it took. And then she suffered some more, with afterpains lasting two weeks following childbirth that somehow nobody had ever told her about.

Nursing turned out better than she had hoped, though, especially with her first—her little son, and her husband's pride and joy. Emily was busy, now, all right—constantly busy with a four-year old boy, and a two-year old angelic terror of a girl-- and probably more children lay in wait in her future. Tavington liked children—at least his own. He wanted more.

_Yes,_ Tavington reflected, as he sat in his study, contemplating a major acquisition. _I want more._ He had been doing well already, but young Will's birth had lit a fire in him. He had built up a splendid, if not unheard-of fortune. In the past five years, his assets had grown steadily, and at times even exponentially. He had amassed nearly two hundred thousand pounds. He had developed a network of business and social contacts. He had rendered a number of men obliged to him by giving them a hint at the right moment. He had even attempted to warn O'Hara of his danger, before the now-Lieutenant-General left for his posting at Toulon. O'Hara had ignored the counsel that would have prevented both him and his command falling captive to the revolutionaries. Word of this extraordinary perspicacity had come to influential ears, and now the Foreign Office was approaching Tavington regularly for advice, believing him to have access to valuable secret intelligence. Tavington snorted a scornful laugh. He did—but not in a form they could have imagined.

It was damp, and his wounds ached, as they often did in such weather. The discomfort always created in him a feeling of angry resentment. In the King's service he had been shot, stabbed, slashed, clubbed, thrown from his horse. He had endured sickness and injury and every kind of hardship; and he had gotten nothing for his pains but public opprobrium, official disdain, and a miserable existence on half-pay. Now, every new thousand he earned, every advantage gained, even the splendid new coach and team he had purchased, were not only consolations: they were a form of revenge against the world that had given him such mean rewards for his sacrifices as a soldier.

He had confided as much to Emily. She understood how callous the world could be, having been badly treated by her own. She gazed out the low French window at their garden, and said, "Well, you know, Will, they say that living well is the best revenge."

He had been much struck by the wisdom of that. Live well he would: yes, and his wife and children too. And God help those who stood in the way.

It was time to make another step toward his goal of resurrecting his reputation and restoring his family name to eminence and honor. At dinner, he told Emily of his newest scheme.

"But I love this place!" she protested, quite unhappy at the idea of moving. "Thistledowne Cottage is our home. It was our first home. The children were born here. And it's wonderful! What more do we need?"

Patiently, Tavington attempted to make his wife understand why this admittedly comfortable and picturesque cottage was totally unfit for an ancient and esteemed family that was now once again on the rise. "A very charming spot for a short while," he added, " but hardly appropriate for us, now that our income is over twelve thousand a year!"

"I see," she sulked. "You want a trophy house."

He understood what she meant, though the term was unknown to him. "Yes," he admitted frankly. "I want what you call a trophy house—a noble country seat. It is very important to me, and it will be important to our children someday. If I could purchase my family's old home, Blackburn Abbey, I would. Alas, the Throckmortons refuse to sell. Ellsmere Hall is a famous old place, and very beautiful from all accounts. I shall go up to Norfolk and have a look at it. Would you like to come with me?"

While she hated the idea of parting with the cottage, she liked seeing William so happy. Like a good wife, and a very good sport, she endured a week's separation from her children to take the first vacation they had had together since their marriage. Despite all the discomforts and inconveniences of travel, it was, she admitted to herself, really a lot of fun to have her husband to herself for a little while.

And Ellsmere Hall was certainly impressive. It was not as bad as she had feared: instead of the intimidating, oppressive pile of stones she had expected, she found a rambling, rather romantic 15th century manor house; with mullioned windows, a riot of climbing roses, a real oak-paneled Great Hall in the medieval style, and even the remains of a minstrel's gallery. On the other hand, it was very big: so big that it was seemed out of human scale—more a magnificent hotel than a home.

But her home it was to be. And to top it all, within a month of their refreshing second honeymoon, she realized she was pregnant yet again. Nonetheless, within five weeks they had packed up their household, their children, and their faithful servants, and headed north. Emily cast a nostalgic look back at their darling little cottage. now empty and forlorn, and knew that things would never be the same.

-----

_I'd like the gardens better_, she decided, _if I were ever permitted to see them._

The gardens of Ellsmere Hall were a glorious maze: hedges, stone walls, arbors, locked iron doors, and latched gates. She wandered out on fine days, peering longingly at the tops of statues and flowering bushes, but somehow she could not reach the things she most wanted to see. When she would come across one of the gardeners, he would touch his forelock, never looking her in the eye, and make some excuse as to why she could not enter parts of the garden; and even more outrageously, claim that what she thought she had seen did not exist.

They did not like her, she realized; and did not respect her. She had been too friendly, too conciliating; too chary of claiming her rights as the chatelaine of Ellsmere Hall. It seemed that the servants had been very fond of the last mistress, a _proper_ lady, Lady Georgiana Makepeace, the one whose husband had proved unable to maintain the state the house called for. There were constant, petty annoyances: in addition to the inability to wander as she pleased in the gardens, the cook's ideas of suitable meals for little children were in unqualified opposition to her own.

She should not have known about this slight. In the servants' opinion, a "proper" mistress like Lady Georgiana would not be visiting the nursery at mealtimes, and so would not have known why young William was so thin, and why little Margaret was so greedy for sweets when she visited them at teatime. However, one Thursday Emily had gone upstairs at one o'clock to see the children at their dinner. Or rather, to see them refusing to eat it.

"What it is?" Emily asked, spooning up the thick gravy coating an unknown spongy blob.

"Brain stew, ma'am," Fanny, the nurserymaid, informed her timidly. William kicked his small booted feet against the table legs angrily.

"It's horrid! I hate it!"

"'Orrid! 'Orrid!" seconded Margaret with great enthusiasm, recklessly pounding her spoon on her plate.

Emily took a bite, and then did something she had told the children not to. Hastily, she found a napkin and spat the noxious mess into it. Her normal passivity cracked like a dam under too much pressure. She had to clutch her head for a moment before managing coherent words.

"Have all the children's meals been like this? Why haven't you told me?"

Fanny was truly frightened. "Beg pardon, ma'am. I spoke to Lucy, the maid who brings the meals up, but she said that Mrs. Busby, the head cook, said it was good enough for _this_ nursery! And once I complained, the food got worse. And I didn't know—some ladies think children should eat what they're given—"

Emily looked at the tray. There were two small cups of milk, which she could tell had not been boiled per her instructions. There were two small bowls of rice pudding. She tasted it. _Bland, but not too bad._ No bread, no jam, no butter.

"All right," she said, trying to remain calm. "Will, Margaret: eat your pudding. I'll see what else I can get for you." She did not clearly remember where the kitchens were, but she would find them.

"Cake, Mamma!" cried Margaret.

"No!" Emily muttered. "No cake. Real food."

Actually, it was not that difficult. All she had to do was follow her nose downstairs. In the large servants' hall, the help was having their own dinner: large, meaty joints of beef; game pie; bowls of turnips, of potatoes, of parsnips, all lavishly buttered; baskets of bread, fruit preserves, jars of honey, cups of cider.

_They eat better than we do,_ Emily thought, blazing with resentment. One of the footmen saw her, and jumped to his feet. The rest turned and with some bows and curtseys and exclamations of surprise, rose as well.

"How may we serve you, Madam?" asked Pratt, the butler, in his most unctuous tones.

Emily could not trust herself to speak. Wordlessly, she stalked to the table and snatched up two plates. Pushing the nervous staff aside, she carefully filled each one with a healthy child's portion. She quickly cut the beef into tiny pieces. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her maid, Annie, and her cook from Thistledowne, Sarah Hayes, now reduced to underlings in this grand establishment. In a carefully controlled voice she ordered, "Fill two cups with clean water, Annie. Sarah, find a tray for these plates, and follow me."

Sarah found covers for the plates as well, so the food would be at least lukewarm by the time they got back to the nursery. Her servants fell into step behind her, and she swept out of the servants' hall, shaking with anger—shaking even more at the buzz of conversation that erupted as the door closed.

For the next three days, she refused to eat the meals the cook attempted to have served to her. For herself and her children, she sent Annie and Sarah to randomly select from whatever was being served up in the servants' hall. She felt horribly vulnerable: she had never understood what the term _spit in one's soup_ could mean before, and the thought of blindly eating anything these hostile, incomprehensible people would put before her nearly made her retch.

She was intermittently nauseous from her pregnancy as well. Sarah was assigned to the children's milk and meals; Annie to her own food.

The food Annie brought her was certainly better than she had had before, but so heavy. _God,_ she thought one day, trying to face a plate of sausages. _What I wouldn't give for some good Thai food._

When Tavington, accompanied by his valet, returned on a Friday evening, he found his household in a state of undeclared war. His wife looked ill and angry: sitting in the upstairs drawing room, clutching a pillow to her middle, her lips pressed together as if reluctant to tell him what was wrong. The servants were slinking about like frightened rabbits. He asked his wife if she had already dined, and found that she had not. He had not lived with her for five years without knowing something was wrong.

Tavington sat by her on the sofa, and stroked her hair. "My dearest, are you ill?"

He was unprepared for the storm of tears that followed. The story poured out: the locked, secret gardens; the spitefulness of the servants; his children's wretched meals; his wife's current state of mind in which she felt besieged in their own home.

"I don't care for myself," she cried, "but the children! Do you want the children to die of tuberculosis—consumption—before they turn twelve?"

He had learned, over the years, to listen in silence. He cared nothing for the servants, and everything for his wife. If she was unhappy, no one was going to be happy. Seeing her distress, he indulged her by sending down Annie to find them both something to eat, and they supped there in the drawing room from a tray. Gradually her sobs abated, while Tavington fed her roasted chicken. When her eyelids began to droop, Tavington felt he had heard enough.

"Annie, " he directed, "help Mrs. Tavington up to her bed. My love," he informed his wife, "I have some business to see to, and will join you presently." As soon as she was gone he summoned Parks, whose usually placid features betrayed that he had been informed of the state of affairs in the household.

In his crispest tones, Tavington said, "I want to see the cook, the butler, the head gardener, and the head parlormaid at once."

Parks endeavored to maintain his poise. "Here, sir?"

"Yes! Here, damn you!" He relented, and growled, "I've a few knees to set knocking, it appears."

Parks bowed. "Quite so, sir."

Tavington was truly put out. He briefly wondered, _how did those imbeciles imagine that they could get away with such insubordination?_ He sighed. Emily did not have a knack with servants. It had taken some time for her to learn to deal with their six servants at Thistledowne. This large staff at Ellsmere had plainly thought they could take advantage of her. If had not been for her maternal protectiveness, they probably would have continued this insolence. He would have to find a trustworthy and efficient housekeeper to oversee the household. Emily had better things to do with her time, anyway.

The subsequent interview was brief but savage. The cook was summarily sacked amidst wails and tears, and the others were informed that Sarah would be taking her place. The butler was reprimanded for his failure to supervise the staff properly. The underservants were warned of the consequences of any hint of impertinence to Tavington, his wife, or his children. The head gardener came in for some of the harshest words.

"When Mrs. Tavington," declared the Colonel, "wishes to walk in her garden, she will find no locked doors and no latched gates: in short, no impediments to her pleasure. The gardens are not yours nor your minions. They are ours. If that is not clear to you, I can find others who will have no difficulty in discharging my commands. Do you understand me?"

They had all understood him quite well, and crept away. "The mistress is too soft by half," Hetty, the parlormaid, confided in an awestruck whisper to the other maids, "but the Colonel is a right Tartar!"

-----

In 1797, Bonaparte was moving from victory to victory. Italy had been swallowed by the French: the Low Countries were threatened. There were terrifying rumors that an invasion of England was being contemplated. The Royal Navy was in hot pursuit of the French fleet, knowing that control of the Channel was vital to the kingdom's security. Tavington was summoned to a private meeting with the Prime Minister, William Pitt, and the rest of the Cabinet; and they urged him to use his contacts for the sake of his country.

Outside the windows, a thin drizzle of rain fell relentlessly. Though it was still afternoon, it had grown dark under the lowering clouds. At Pitt's order, the candles were lit, and odd shadows flickered across the faces of anxious men. Some of them had derided their fellows for taking Tavington's advice in the past. No longer. Rapt attention was focused on the former Colonel of Dragoons.

Tavington leaned forward, eyes glittering. Emily had never seen such an expression on her husband's face, but his old enemies in the Colonies would have had no difficulty in recognizing it.

"I want a peerage," he declared, and subsided into his chair, daring them to refuse; hating them because they just might refuse.

They did not. There was some haggling. The ministers decried his lack of patriotism, and thought he should be fobbed off with a knighthood. Tavington sneered politely at such an offer and held firm. He did not get everything he demanded—he did not get an earldom, but he would be made a viscount. He would be received at court the following spring. Tavington hid his savage glee behind a mask of cool indifference. He would be publicly recognized. He would sit in the House of Lords. His peerless Emily would be a peeress. His children would bear the word Honourable before their names.

He decided to end his career as a master of rumor and intelligence with one last, grand flourish. History was already beginning to warp and distort with the changes he had introduced. Tiny changes spread their ripples throughout the world, like pebbles thrown into a still pond. Emily had described this as "the butterfly effect" to him, and he understood that it was only a matter of time before the future became as impenetrable to her as to any other inhabitant of the period. She might know of inventions, discoveries, and general trends, but the movements of the chess pieces were changing.

A map was rolled out, and the strategy of the French fleet over the next few months was detailed. Bonaparte's designs on Egypt were revealed. Had Tavington's intelligence been less reliable before this, his statements now would have been met with incredulity. As it was, there was time, not to forestall Bonaparte, but to lie in wait, trap, and ambush the fleet before French troops could disembark.

Nelson and his fleet were dispatched, under orders of the deepest secrecy. The surprise was complete. Only two of the French ships, carrying a small force of soldiers and a party of scholars and scientists, managed to land, and those ultimately had to be rescued from the fury of the Mamelukes by a detachment of Royal Marines. Otherwise, the destruction of the French fleet, including the transports bearing the French army, was nearly total. The ensuing British stay in Cairo-- Nelson's adventures there, and the fascinating accounts and pictures of the ancient monuments-- made for thrilling reading in the newspapers. Of greater political moment was the death of the intrepid young General Bonaparte, drowned in the Nile Delta like some Ptolemy of old. Much ink was spilled on his behalf, speculating on what his future might have been; and poets and playwrights alike found him a tragic and mysterious embodiment of overweening ambition and wasted potential. He became one of the great "what if's" of history.

The ministers, not knowing that Tavington had forsworn further intervention in events, kept their word to him. Triumphant, it only remained for him to choose the name he would hold his title under. As the Ellsmere title was vacant, and the estate his own—and as the name was well-sounding itself, he chose that. Lord Ellsmere he would be now, and he would leave behind the ill-starred Colonel Tavington forever.

Emily rather enjoyed her presentation at Court, ridiculous as all the pomp and protocol were. It was odd to hear herself addressed as Lady Ellsmere, but she could adapt to that--she had adapted to worse. She had even adapted to her life at Ellsmere Hall; and saw that however absurdly, her consequence with her servants had been raised by her accession to a title.

"It's also useful when dealing with shopkeepers and the country gentry," she admitted wryly to her husband, as they drove back home to Norfolk. His smile was sardonic, but there was still a hint of the same victorious gleam that his expression had held since his crucial interview with the Prime Minister. She patted his arm, and he smiled more broadly, blooming like a flower in the sun.

He agreed. "And with the moneymen of the City! My reputation for brilliance shines even more brightly now that I've a handle to my name. I'll miss the lot of them, the blackguards, but I've made all the fortune that even I could ask for; I've been received by the King, taken my seat in the Lords---and now I want to spend my time with my family!"

-----

Another author could end the story here. The heroine, raised to nobility, blessed with wealth, position, a loving husband, delightful children, at the height of her success, is ushered back to "happily ever after" at her palatial estate.

But the form of real life resists such a conclusion. Oh, Emily had some happy years yet ahead of her, though her occasional fears for the health of a husband older than she raised concerns from time to time; and the children's misery during the inevitable childhood ailments caused many sleepless nights. Nonetheless, she was happy, as the world and she herself would account happiness. She had even managed to make a few friends outside her own family circle: her housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, was kind and motherly; the wife of the local rector proved a pleasant, companionable woman of about the same age as Emily herself; and there were some decent county families who could supply the occasional welcome guests to Ellsmere Hall. The past reality of her existence in the 21st century faded with time, and became irrelevant.

She had feared childbirth, recognizing its undeniable hazards. Her fourth and last child, born prematurely eight months after his parents' reception at Court, nearly died within days of his birth; and afterwards Emily succeeded in persuading her husband to follow a natural monthly method that reduced her chances of conception. Four children, three boys and a girl, made a sufficiently large family. Indeed, she had survived the most obvious dangers of the period, and bid fair to rear children who would live to be adults.

But still, as they say, you have to die of something. Some years later, as often happens, it was not she, but her husband, who first noticed the lump in her breast. She was terribly frightened at first, and yet the blow fell with the inevitability of a tree under the woodsman's axe. It was William who was more appalled and anguished, imploring her to think—to remember-- if there was not something she could do, some bit of her magical knowledge that could save her. In the few months ahead, he learned the limits of his wife's information; and she, as she surrendered the struggle, and retreated to the dreams of laudanum, recognized the superiority of the past in the face of imminent death. She would not suffer, as her aunt had, the torture of hopes raised and dashed, over and over again. She would not die surrounded by objective, dispassionate strangers, with tubes up her nose. She would be leaving William long before she was ready, but she knew that his hand would be in hers to the very end.

-----

On the chilly October day that saw Lady Ellsmere laid to rest, there was quite a gathering at the parish church. She was buried in the crypt, and the little crowd of mourners watched in respectful silence as the black-clad family of the deceased lady departed after the entombment. The vicar, too, held his peace, not wishing to further disturb the deeply grieving Lord Ellsmere or his children. The family, though they had been good friends to himself and his wife, had always been a bit strange. Rumors of Lord Ellsmere's savagery in the American rebellion had never quite died down. There were equally wild rumors about the source of his fortune and his mysterious role in the war with the French.

And then there was Lady Ellsmere herself, a sweet and peculiar woman of unknown origins, whose foibles and sometimes bizarre speech and behavior had been the talk of her servants and the whole county at times. The mutual devotion of Lord and Lady Ellsmere was above question, but their manner of showing it sometimes verged upon the odd. Certainly the wording on her tomb was unique. The vicar had not dared to lodge a protest, but he and his wife were to find it all a subject for speculation both now and forever.

Emily Elizabeth Norton Tavington, Lady Ellsmere

2025-1809

Unreturned 

-----

**Notes: **The White Hart Inn is a real place. It is still a working hotel, and you can stay there if you go to Bath.

O'Hara was captured by forces of the French Revolution at Toulon in 1793 (during which a young Bonaparte first came to prominence in our universe). He was badly wounded, imprisoned under hideous conditions, and repeatedly threatened with death until the fall of Robespierre. It permanently soured his outlook on life.

Ellsmere Hall is inspired by Elsing Hall in Norfolk, a wonderful moated manor house with spectacular gardens in the English style.

Brain stew is not an invention of mine. Nursery menus in great houses were often foul.

"Roll up the map of Europe!" cried William Pitt in another universe, after Napoleon's victory at Austerlitz.

Next episode: **Tavington's Atlantis**


	18. Tavington's Atlantis

_Disclaimer: Tavington and Bordon are not mine. Ferguson is his own man, and his girls are—his girls. Everything else belongs to me. _

Here is the promised sequel to _The Door Into Time_. A few years later, we get a glimpse of our hero, his family, and the progress of the Aurora Project.

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 1 **

**Prologue: May, 151 A.D. **

A letter from his old friend! The tired man at the writing table smiled. It was unexpected, but a great pleasure. Setting aside the burden of office for a moment, he opened the missive to read the news.

_Gaius Ulpius Naso to Lucius Didius Plautianus, greeting! _

_My dear Lucius, I hardly know where to begin, but perhaps it is just as well to start somewhere, and try to make sense of my chaotic thoughts as I write. The extent of the disaster in which I find myself enmeshed is too broad for excuses or fine rhetorical style. I have thrown myself on the Emperor's mercy, and perhaps this will be my last message to you or to anyone. If nothing else, I can lay before you the whole tale, neither denying nor excusing my part in it. _

_It was the Atlanti, of course. Whatever you have heard, be assured that it is all paler than reality! I, as the governor's deputy, have dealt with them personally, and I can only caution you to avoid my fate. As everyone knows, the appearance of these mysterious people has set the entire empire on its ear. From Iberia north to Lusitania, and south to Africa, and on and on and on, spreading awe, confusion, and the wildest rumors in their wake. _

_When that extraordinary iron ship, sailing against the wind with its strangely shaped crimson sails, utterly without oars, appeared in the harbor of Gades, we hardly knew what to make of it. The men—and women!—who crewed the ship were admirably disciplined, and were fluent in a curiously old-fashioned, formal kind of Latin. Amongst themselves, however, they conversed in a language known to no one else. _

_Their leader, Patricius Verguso, was no barbarian warrior, indeed, but a soldier, a diplomat, and a shamelessly sharp trader. What was even more extraordinary was the fact that the ship was crewed by women. Their very pilot was a woman of a beauty that one might justly describe as divine. Uccarte is as close as I can pronounce her barbarian name, though she was addressed as the captain of the ship by the soldiers, her crew, and by Verguso himself. _

_It soon became clear that these were odd people indeed: so odd that it was difficult to understand what they wanted or how they thought. Their very garments, of fine weave and color, expertly tailored, provoked interest, even considering that they wear barbarous breeches, both men and women. At first we thought that there was some custom that demanded that men wear red coats and women blue; but my secretary Nikeratos, who learned as much as anyone about the Atlanti before he went absolutely mad and decided to sail away with them, discovered that the red coats simply signified that the wearer was a soldier. The blue coats were worn by the women, not because they were women, but because they were sailors. Curious, most curious. _

_They seemed no less puzzled by us, and even Verguso, who rarely showed anything but detached amusement, was surprised by the intense interest shown by all in the net-like edgings of his undertunic, which they call "lace," (perhaps derived from lacerate?) but which have become fashionable, and ubiquitous, as reticulata. As you may know, even stationed as you are in faraway Pannonia, it has since become the rage in Rome. An expensive fashion, however; for all attempts to reproduce the subtle patterns have either failed, or proved to take the weavers and embroiderers weeks to finish even the smallest piece. Another mystery of Atlantis! _

_They offered in trade a great quantity of saccharum. Hardly unknown, you may say, but the saccharum of the Atlanti is the finest, the purest, incomparably the best in the world. The Atlanti, for their part, do not reveal how they create the delicate, sand-like texture so prized by all. They were willing to drink our wine, but amongst themselves drank strange hot drinks that have also become very much the fashion, especially when sweetened by saccharum. Above all, theobroma, rarest and most precious of spices, is their gift to the world. They call it "coco" in their own strange tongue, but theobroma is its rightful name—"food of the gods" indeed!_

_In addition, they brought with them a rich, deep, and delicious wine. Atlantean wine is brownish red in color, and quite strong. A superior wine; and I believe the Emperor himself was sent some, curiously stored in large glass bottles! The Atlanteans are prodigal with their fine glass._

_Also in bottles was something that I had never experienced. Verguson called it "rum," but I would call it a liquid thunderbolt. He laughed, and said that was not an unsuitable name. The gods help us if the Atlanteans were to ever sell it in large quantities! I swear to you, one is dead drunk after one goblet!  
_

_They had many other objects of beauty and rarity—more magnificent glassware; exotic, unknown fruits. To the governor, they made a large present of silken cloth of the richest, darkest red, with an almost carpet-like pile, which they called "velvet." _

_The Atlanti were asked by me and by others where they came from, and they replied with prudence that they came from an island, and that, yes, they were from "New Atlantis." Verguso, though an important man among his people, is answerable to his commander, whose title he gave variously as "dux" or "princeps." Further, it was apparent that this Prince Tabitus is not a king as we understand the word. Nor is he what the Greeks would describe as a "tyrant." Instead, he is the head of government, and commander of their army, but himself answerable to a body of leading citizens, and to some extent to his people at large. Thus, he functions more as a consul, but with no defined term of office. _

_As to how many Atlanti there are, we received no indication. When asked directly, Verguso would smile and talk of other things. They are a sophisticated and educated people. Even the common soldiers of his guard were all literate. I know this for a fact, for I had them followed about the town to all the places dear to travelers—to the taverns, to the brothels, to the various places of note. Even to the temples, which they examined with interest, but at which they would not sacrifice. About their religion, there is drawn a veil of secrecy. _

_The governor, that arrogant fool Vinicius, found them of great interest from their first encounter. Would that he had never seen them, as you will agree when I tell you of the misfortunes arising from this ill-fated meeting. He invited them to a feast at his residence, and later to join him in his box at the Games. Verguso and his legate, Bordo, conversed with great charm, and enjoyed the dishes and the entertainment at the feast. Their striking scarlet dress attracted much attention from the ladies and from the slavegirls, whom they treated with quite exceptional kindness. One of the dancing girls, a valuable slave of the governor, disappeared shortly thereafter, and is believed to have run away and joined the Atlanti on their ship. Nor would they have revealed her presence._

_For it appears that there are no slaves among the Atlanti, and furthermore, they view the practice of owning slaves with the same abhorrence as did the philosopher Demokritos and his school. They consider a slaveowner degraded by the possession of other human beings. Verguso and Bordo, indeed, were neither rude nor even very vocal on this issue, but the philosophers and women sailors of the Atlanti certainly were. Everyone is free, and all are educated, boys and girls alike, in the same schools at state expense. Most Platonic! _

_What they wanted in return for their trade goods was as surprising as the people themselves. Gold: yes, and they left with plenty of it. However, they were very interested in books, especially old ones. Their philosophers had a list of books they wanted. I believe they paid a high price for a play by Euripides, and some astronomical treatises of Aristarchos. The Atlanti also, more mundanely, bought a great deal of fine leather, a large quantity both of sulfur and of cork bark, and masses of lead and copper ingots. _

_In addition, they wanted some well-educated individuals, to learn more of us. They were sold some learned Greek scholars, one Amyntor the Mathematician from Massilia, and two well-trained slave tutors. One of them was Lysis, who educated my sister's children. The Atlanti told them that they wished them to return with them to their island, and promised them their freedom if they did. Not surprisingly, the men were enthusiastic in their accord. _

_As I indicated, the Atlanteans attended the Games as the governor's guests, and their reaction was more Greek than Roman. Several were obviously fighting men, and they observed the armed combat with interest, and showed both experience and discrimination as they judged the various gladiators' skills. The earlier combats, with wooden swords, or for first blood, they observed with evident pleasure. As the fights grew in intensity, it was plain that they disapproved. A fight to the death merely for the entertainment of the populace they found offensive. The executions by wild beasts of criminals and political agitators caused them great disgust, and they felt the delight of the spectators to be repulsive and depraved. _

_Naturally, I explained to these foreigners that the Games are a great tradition, and one with a vital purpose: to make the citizens brave. Verguso was unimpressed with this reasoning, and replied briefly that he did not see how watching the death of others, especially helpless women, from a place of safety could make anyone brave. "Cruel, I'll grant you," he agreed. "Indifferent to the sufferings of others—but not brave. They risk nothing themselves." _

_Of course, we have all heard these arguments before: and from some of the best in our Empire. It was disagreeable to feel that these cultivated and powerful strangers were sitting in judgment of our mores, and finding them wanting. But to end the Games would create a profound social and political crisis. The Games amuse and pacify the masses: they provide an opportunity for great men to display public generosity, and allow them to further their political aspirations. What could replace them? The theater, I suppose, or horse and chariot racing—but none of those things truly has the visceral life-or-death excitement of a battle for supremacy between a man and a lion! Or a staged battle! _

_I asked what the Atlanti did for entertainment, and it seems they too have several types of drama, and attend musical concerts and lectures. They also participate in ball games of a highly ritualized kind. Most extraordinary of all, they dance. I give you my word that Verguso himself told me that the men and women of the Atlanti dance together as partners at large gatherings convened for that very purpose, and it is considered a polite social amusement. I know what you are picturing, and I cannot quite banish the idea myself, but without actually living among the Atlanti, we can never know if our envisioned Atlantean orgies are real or not. _

_The Governor showed increasing fascination with the Atlanti, wishing their presence ever more frequently at his functions, both public and private. He conversed frequently with many of the Atlanti, and sent expresses to the Emperor to relay the news and request instructions. Fearing that the Atlanti would depart before he could receive an answer, he planned tours of the province, and various entertainments to keep them occupied. I did not know until later that he had a private, and most insidious reason for his apparent devotion to duty. By the time the Atlanti returned for their second visit a year later, it became clear._

_Perhaps it is already evident to you: you were always a better student of philosophy than I. You may recall the reference to Atlantis in Plato's dialogue Kritias. There is a description of the grandeur of ancient Atlantis, and the events leading to its fall. Much of the description can be understood as allegory, depending upon which school of philosophy one's teacher held to! _

_Vinicius, alas, interpreted it all too literally. At any rate, his vanity, his greed, his cupidity resulted in a disaster on the scale of the defeat at Carrhae, or the massacre in the Teutoberg Forest. I will relate the events in the best order my disordered wits can contrive…_

----

**Notes:** Theobroma (food of the gods) is the real scientific name of cocoa. Or more properly, _Theobroma cacao_ is the scientific name of the chocolate tree.

Saccharum is Latin for sugar.

The ancients did not stopper their wine jars with cork, but with clay or wax or a combination of the two.

Madeira wine, such as the Atlanteans produced, is a fortified wine; quite beyond Roman technology, and with a higher alcoholic content than ordinary wine.

Strong spirits, such as whiskey, rum, gin, etc., were unknown in the ancient world. Distillation was not sophisticated enough.

**Next:** Part 2--A Family Vacation. Tavington reflects on the progress of the settlement of New Atlantis, and his people's own view of that first contact with Roman culture.


	19. Tavington's Atlantis, part 2

_In which get a glimpse of our hero, his family, and the progress of the Aurora Project._

There is some material in this chapter that could be considered "R-rated." Ancient Romans resist movie ratings. Therefore I have not dramatized it, but simply related it as having happened in the past.

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 2 **

**A Family Vacation: March, 150 A.D. **

"Dad---dy, let's go in the water again!"

Reluctantly, Colonel William Tavington awakened from his pleasant doze and found himself staring into two pairs of ice-blue eyes only inches from his own. Beyond the eager small faces, the sea was turquoise, the beach warm golden sand, the sky a rapturous cerulean blue, and the air alive with subtle fragrant breezes, smelling at one moment of the sea, and the next of lush tropical fruits.

The fruity scent came from his drink on the low tray table beside him—the one that the twins' antics threatened to upset. Diana, lounging in her own beach chair beside him under the broad umbrella, laughed and rescued both their drinks from imminent disaster.

Tavington growled, "I was having a _really_ good dream."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," explained three-year-old Will with no genuine repentance, "but we need you to go in the water with us again."

His twin sister, Iris, patted her father's bare arm with a consoling little hand, made sticky by her own spilled juice. "Mommy can't save us if start to drown! Her tummy is too big now!"

Diana flashed her husband an ironic, triumphant grin, and took a sip from her drink—the one without the rum. Tavington knew himself ensnared, and took the proffered hands; rather looking forward to another round of water sports with his delightful children. Had they been back at home in the Town Hall, he would have had their adopted daughter, Emily, to take up the slack. Emily, however, was now a mature fifteen-year old, who had been unenthusiastic about a trip to an island where she would be the only teenager, and would in addition be separated from her circle of friends and miss class for _"a whole four days!"_ So Emily stayed behind, feeling very grown-up and responsible, not knowing how her parents had enjoined Lisa Seevers to keep an eye on her while they were gone.

The twins had been something of a surprise to him, but not to Diana or to their 21st century medical team. Becoming pregnant immediately after removing a contraceptive implant often resulted in multiple births, and Diana was not alone among the new mothers of their community. The term "baby boom" was known to everyone now, whether a "21" or an "18." Two centuries difference in outlook had come to matter less and less. They were all united against the rest of the world—the world of the 2nd century A.D.; and current slang now differentiated between "newbies"—anyone transplanted from the future—and "old-timers"—the natives of this period in history.

Will and Iris bounced gleefully in the surf, shrieking with joy and terror when a wave knocked them down. These few days of holiday on Numenor's splendid beach had done the whole family a great deal of good.

Iris splashed Will, and then switched her attention to admiring the tiny ruffled skirt adorning her blue and yellow bathing suit. Certain customs of the 21's had been adopted, with occasional nervous resistance from the 18's—and vice versa, of course. Sea bathing had not been unknown in Tavington's time, but women had been heavily garbed, and men likewise—unless they ventured out of sight and wore nothing at all. The abbreviated bathing dress of the 21's took some getting used to, but Tavington was inured to it now, though he preferred roomier bathing trunks than the tight and tiny garb some of the 21's affected.

Long conversations over dinner, pleasant rounds of drinks at one of the new public houses—_all right,_ he shrugged, _pubs—_had given both groups of time travelers a better understanding of each other's mindset.

One hot night in July that first year, Patrick Ferguson had wondered aloud to Diana, "I suppose you find us pitiful prudes, the way we dress from head to toe."

"No," had replied Diana, after a few moment's reflection. "I think you come from a colder climate. It took centuries for Americans to learn to dress like Americans, and not copy the heavier styles of Europe. You're not accustomed to seeing people wear clothing more appropriate to hot weather, and so it looks odd to you."

"That is so true," agreed Polly, one of Patrick's—well, _wives _would have to be the term now. "There are no Paris modes to follow, and there's no reason not to set our own!" She was an excellent seamstress herself, and with the passion of a convert had adopted the new kind of clothing created for New Atlantis' women when not engaged in active work: an ankle-length dress of colorful, gauzy cotton—either sleeveless, or with various pretty kinds of shorter sleeves. Some of the dresses were perfectly straight, without a waist at all. Some had high waists—especially those worn by expectant mothers. Comfortable sandals replaced the awkward footgear of the past. Polly still had not quite gotten used to the sight of women in trousers, but as her own tasks in building New Atlantis did not require her wearing them herself, she had learned to tolerate it.

"Aunt Sally!" screeched Will, seeing Ferguson's other---um, _wife_—strolling past on the beach.

Tavington let the boy run to her, unable to escape from Iris' ruthless little clutches himself. His daughter grabbed his hands and made him lift her out of the water and drop her down again, over and over. Tavington smiled back at her infectious glee, trying once again to decide who she more resembled. With her hair sopping wet, and darker for it, he would guess himself—or really, maybe his own mother. Actually, both children were pretty good blends of both their mother and father.

Iris stopped her play with him, and turned an earnest face up for help in wiping her eyes. He obliged, and added a kiss. The little girl saw Sally and waved.

"Hi, Aunt Sally!" She leaned against Tavington and confided, "Aunt Sally's even bigger than Mommy! Her dress looks like a _tent!" _

Tavington snorted, glad that Sally had not overheard. Her belly was perfectly enormous, and in her loose dress, colored in a wild style that the 21's called "tie-dyed," it did not look any smaller. She was expecting her second child, and her first, an adorable two-year-old redhead named Annie, was napping under a tree further up the beach, along with her brother/cousin Jamie and his mother Polly.

In fact, Tavington and a few members of the Executive Council were making an inspection of Numenor. They had come to spend a few days, take a good look at the resources, the production, and the efficiency of the little outpost on the smaller of the two habitable islands that comprised their settlement of New Atlantis. Since they had brought their spouses and children along, it was a very pleasant family holiday as well. Tavington had quite a few issues to mull over, and it helped to get away and think in this idyllic place.

Numenor was quite different from the city of New Atlantis, with its Fountain Square, its impressive buildings, its rows of flats, its strips of shops, and the massive bulk of the Laboratory set further back toward the hills surrounding the town. Numenor was an unpretentious place. There was one road leading up from the docks: it was the artery that connected a boathouse, a warehouse, a grouping of a few buildings that served as a "downtown" to the long string of houses, barns, and sheds of the villagers; and it ended at the little hangar, office, cabin, and airstrip that was rather grandly named Numenor Airport.

The Numenoreans were somewhat different too. The population, numbering only thirty-two (_No—_said the harbormaster_—I tell a lie. Thirty-three since Tara had her baby two weeks ago_), was made up of people who preferred the quiet and isolation of the little island. The 21s' innovation of working women paid dividends here, for almost every adult held a position of his or her own. There were the ranchers, raising beef and dairy cattle; the harbormaster and his wife the postmistress/radio operator; the harbormaster's two assistants, who seemed to spend most of their time fishing; the couple who maintained the power plant; the engineer in charge of the island's airstrip, who tended the hamlet's other radio; the pilot stationed on Numenor; another couple who ran the town's general store-cum-pub; and a few farmers, busily growing cotton and sugar cane and tending orchards and vegetable gardens.

It was three hours by boat to the big island: less than half an hour by air in an emergency, so those Numenoreans in need of supplies and amusement could certainly visit as needed. A few times a year, some Atlanteans came over to the smaller island, stayed with the inhabitants in the big transplanted farmhouses, helped the farmers out with the harvests, and enjoyed time at the beach. New Atlantis' own beaches were beautiful, but pebbled; not the fine golden grains of Numenor Beach. Eventually, more housing and at least a primary school would have to be built on the little island, but for now, the Numenoreans had no complaints.

He had intended to ask Michael Flynn to come along, but Michael was too busy with his own projects: today the geologistwas overseeing the little oil well and refinery in what might someday be called Oklahoma. They needed a small amount of fuel for the aircraft and the boats. Small: but essential. No one wanted to repeat the mistakes of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. However, while their motor vehicles and construction machines were electrically powered, similar arrangements were not satisfactory for the helicopter and the two airplanes. There were a handful of motorboats, and even the large sailing yachts, and the _Enterprise_ herself, had supplementary engines. It was one thing to be protective of their environment: it was another to be careless of their own security. They had chosen a site for the oil well carefully, finding a place uninhabited in 150 A.D. (though the facility was surrounded by a tall electrified fence--the place was often unattended). Michael had projects elsewhere as well: in the southern tip of Africa, in the Ural Mountains, in the Australian desert.

Iris had found a shell that she wanted to show her mother, and they sauntered back to Diana, their feet sinking luxuriously into the soft, deep sand. Diana was properly fascinated by Iris' new treasure, and Tavington left his women-folk to admire it, while he retrieved the remnants of his daiquiri and walked over to have a word with Ferguson.

The Scotsman was sprawled in blissful abandon on a huge beach towel, sipping a concoction of his own devising. Leaning on his left arm, he held the elaborate glass goblet in his right hand with an air of complacency. Twenty-first century surgery had given him back most of the use of it. The doctors were apologetic at not achieving one hundred percent success; but Ferguson had laughed, saying that he could now use his right hand to fire a pistol, eat with a fork or spoon, write with a pen, and make love to a woman. "When all's said and done," he observed, "what more can a man ask?"

He looked up as Tavington's shadow fell across his face.

Reproachfully, Tavington demanded, "Do you mean to do nothing for the next few days but lie on the beach and drink rum?"

Ferguson lifted his glass in salute. "Welcome to Numenor!"

They shared a laugh at the reference, and Tavington sat down by his friend.

Polly, a few yards further back in the shade, overheard and laughed too. "If we don't get back by Friday, we'll miss movie night."

"Oh, aye," Ferguson nodded seriously, "That _is_ a consideration."

That was another innovation of the 21's that Tavington and his comrades found enjoyable. It had taken some time to understand the conventions of "films," but once those were grasped, the 18's had taken the art form to their hearts. There was a huge library of photoplays covering the whole 150-year history of the genre, from the silent films of Keaton and Chaplin to the almost three-dimensional epics of the last works in the 2040's before the collapse. Some of the stories were incomprehensible: Diana practically worshipped the films of Humphrey Bogart, but the context of them was often difficult for Tavington to fathom, though he had been moved by _The African Queen,_ and impressed by the dark subtlety of _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre._ Diana was the settlement's official film critic, and often began the Friday night presentation with a brief talk explaining the background of the particular movie. This had helped the audience of 18th century transplants greatly, especially when a film was set in the American Civil War, or in the American Wild West, or in the First or Second World War.

Diana herself was interested in which films were embraced by the 18's. They liked action films, which was not too surprising; and generally found social or psychological melodrama less entertaining. The popular favorites were mythological films like _Jason and the Argonauts_, _Illium,_ and _Excalibur_; and historical pieces like _Ivanhoe, Kingdom of Heaven, The Vikings, Gladiator, The Last of the Mohicans, The Warlord, 1066, Cleopatra—_all of them were tremendous hits. Even glimpses into the future of the British Army became beloved: _Zulu_ and_ The Man Who Would Be King_ were chief among these. Sometimes works of lesser stature struck a chord with 18th century sensibilities that outstanding works did not. A series about the English Civil War, _By the Sword Divided,_ was one of the most popular offerings, and the whole community talked and speculated about the characters as if they were next-door neighbors. Shakespeare's plays were available as well: the later version of_ Henry V _was a great favorite.

Early on, Diana had made a firm rule about carrying firearms into the auditorium, which proved wise when coping with wildly excited soldiers, especially when they saw something as alarming as _Jurassic Park (_even after her assurance to the audience that dinosaurs had indeed lived once but were really and truly completely extinct) She had chosen the first few films very carefully, and had had great success in setting the right tone; but even she was not prepared for the pandemonium with which the old _Lord of the Rings _trilogy was received.

Tavington pooh-poohed her concern. There were really very few injuries—only assorted minor cuts when the Dragoons and the Volunteers drew their swords during the battle scenes. He had loved the films himself (secretly and deeply empathizing with Boromir), though he still disapproved of the climactic cavalry charge in _The Two Towers,_ pointing out that such a slope would have inevitably resulted in a great number of horses tumbling down the hill head-first. Yes, yes, it was a fantasy—but still… The film had to be shown again every few months, and now there was a running chorus of gruff, ardent fans reciting their favorite lines along with the actors. (_Hail the victorious dead!)_

It was hard to tell fantasy from reality. The stories of adventures in outer space were confusing but often very exciting. Even more popular than _Star Wars_ was _John Carter of Mars_, the Virginia-born hero of which had become practically a soldier's icon. Tavington loved any movie with realistic dinosaurs, especially the spectacular _The Lost World_ of 2024; but his first favorite, hands-down, was a film about Alexander the Great in Egypt made in 2036, called _Lord of the Two Lands_. It was thrillingly realistic, historically accurate, and so affecting that he brooded some hours after, bitterly regretting that they had not made their settlement in, say, 335 B.C. He was determined to travel to that time when he could. He simply had to see Alexander for himself.

And nearly everybody enjoyed the three "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies, accepting them as bizarre but enchanting fantasy. The mix of a century's different clothing styles had been distracting at first, but the lively wit and theatrical swordplay of the stories was irresistible. Tavington could not help quoting from them, and still was not as bad as Ferguson, whom Diana acclaimed as nearly as great a movie-buff as herself.

Diana occasionally tried out more exotic films on Tavington, Bordon, and Ferguson in the privacy of the laboratory, before attempting to present them to the rest of the 18's. It was just as well. They warned her that subtitled films were not going to go over at all, though they themselves enjoyed a few fine French films—notably _Cyrano de Bergerac_ and _Hussard sur le Toit._ With Japanese film she was unsuccessful. Despite her best efforts to explain the background and customs of the characters, some of it was simply impenetrable. They appreciated _Seven Samurai_ as a noble work of art, but persuaded her that it would be a hopeless cause with semi-literate rankers. _The Magnificent Seven_, however, was seen and enjoyed by all.

Ferguson broke in on Tavington's reverie. "And what has your lady in store for us this week?"

"Oh!" said Tavington. "_Dragonslayer. _It should please everyone."

"Aye," agreed Ferguson with a lifted brow. "And not cause the fash that _some_ films have. Everyone likes a fairy tale."

Tavington understood Ferguson's hint. Diana was too perceptive a woman to have done it by mistake. _I, Claudius_ had a tremendous reception: for weeks people talked of nothing else; but it did not relieve the growing tension, nor did it improve the Atlanteans' opinion of Rome or Romans.

He downed the rest of his drink. What to do? What indeed--when you have admired and studied a people so long, and then have been utterly disillusioned? Last year's expedition that had made first contact with the Roman Empire could hardly be called a failure: the _Enterprise_ had sailed successfully into the harbor of Gades; peaceful commerce had been established with the local authorities and traders; vital supplies had been obtained, lost literary masterpieces had been acquired, useful local talent had been recruited. Why then was there such a bitter aftertaste?

Tavington and Executive Council had originally thought to be open about their origins in the future, but on reflection had decided that that might be too great a culture shock for the ancient world. They had decided to make contact, get a feel for the lay of the land, and then act accordingly. At the moment, their hopes of fully explaining themselves to the Roman world were not sanguine. _Sanguine… _Taken in another sense of the world, their experience had been _sanguine _indeed.

They could not complain of their expedition's reception. The Roman governor, Marcus Vinicius, had been almost _too_ friendly. He had been pleased with the gifts, and incessantly curious about the Atlanteans' origins, their customs—even the very lace on their garments. He had detained Ferguson and his party so long that they had begun to fear there was some secret agenda. Comfortably lodged in an official guesthouse, the landing party had radioed Atlantis; the engineers had received the proper coordinates and had been able to open a gate; and Tavington and a few of the scientists and engineers had come through for a clandestine survey of this ancient city. Much of it was beautiful and impressive: but a great deal was squalid and vile.

Tavington was a man of the eighteenth century, and not one to be perturbed by a chamberpot emptied out a window. Still, there was a nastiness here for which he had been unprepared. The water in the public baths was slightly green and stinking. The level of casual brutality and open sexual congress quite disquieting, even for a man who had known the roughest parts of London. The entire society was powered by slaves: omnipresent and completely invisible to their masters.

Ferguson had been disturbed, too. The reality of the place had not quite struck him until the night of the Governor's feast, when they had been entertained by naked, dancing slavegirls, some of whom had serviced the guests where they sat. Shocking enough: there had been ladies present who had simply laughed at the sight, as if at gamboling dogs. All the Atlanteans, male and female, were provided with their own slavegirl to attend them. The look of repressed rage and contempt on Lesley Urquhart's face would have made Ferguson laugh, if the situation were not so perilous. He and Bordon required all their self-command to maintain the appearance of _savoir-faire._

These indecencies were eclipsed, however, by the boxing match that followed, in which the otherwise naked pugilists' hands were wrapped in metal studded leather. No blow was too foul for the combatants. The victor beat his opponent to death, to the polite, bored applause of the guests. He had gone on, smashing at the dead man's face until it was no longer recognizable as human. It had occurred to Ferguson that this was a subtle threat to him and his comrades, but on further deliberation, he decided it was not. It was an attempt of decadent people jaded beyond imagination to experience something—anything—that could excite them.

He had walked away to a balcony to get a breath of fresh air. Bordon was there already, listening intently to the sounds of the city at night. In the distance, nearly inaudible because of the noise from the feast, they could hear screams of laughter, howls and curses, and the thin, pitiful cries of unwanted infants, left in the common fields and on dunghills to die a slow death from exposure. Soon they could hear no more of this, because guests noisily began using the _vomitorium_, a room with basins and feathers set aside so the guests could vomit up the food they had eaten, in order to enable them to stuff themselves with the next course.

The two Britons stood awhile in silence, and Ferguson remarked, "I've always thought of myself as a sophisticated man, d'ye ken? _Autre pays, autre moeurs_."

"_Ad nauseam_," countered Bordon with a grim laugh. "So did I. God, this is a hideous place."

The slavegirls who had attended them at the feast were sent to their guest residence to amuse them. Ferguson was torn with indecision: there was the counsel of "when in Rome," and then there was the disapproving presence of the female Atlanteans, who would certainly tell on him if he did as the Romans unquestionably would. Discretion was by far the better part of valor. Avoiding temptation, he ordered Bordon to have the girls decently fed, and then have them bed down in the guesthouse's atrium as a group.

The Games the following day dealt a more lethal blow to their hopes. The Atlanteans were somewhat prepared for the combats. The gladiators showed great skill at arms and even the kind of courage real professionals can summon at need. That those men's lives were being thrown away for an idle afternoon's entertainment seemed wicked and wasteful to them all. What followed was worse.

Ferguson and Bordon, and certainly Herb Schultz and Alan Swinburne, who were in attendance, were not entirely taken by surprise. They knew that there was considerable variety offered for entertainments of this sort. Ferguson decided that it was just as well that Lesley Urquhart and most of her crew had decided to return to the _Enterprise_, because had she been here, she would have undoubtedly pulled a gun, and gotten them in all sorts of trouble. He could hardly keep his voice from shaking when relating the events to Tavington.

The second act of the Games were executions imaginatively staged in mythological style. The Nemean lion was featured first: three wretched men were shoved out of a gate to be mauled, disemboweled, or decapitated by a huge maned male with a savage temper. The crowd roared with laughter as one desperate man ran from gate to gate, trying to escape. The lion padded after him, in no hurry. The man fouled himself, screaming in terror: this occasioned even greater hilarity. Men and women wiped their eyes and nudged each other, and then squealed at the climax, as the beast caught him at last, and his head disappeared into the gaping maw. A huge gladiator, armed with a spiked club, appeared on the scene, representing Hercules. The lion was discreetly shot from behind the gates, probably with some sort of opiate to slow it down. Once it was sedated, "Hercules" leaped forward and battered the animal to death. Costumed stagehands, garbed like Charon, dragged off the dead men and the lion with iron hooks. Boys and girls with painted faces, dressed as nymphs and fauns, scattered fresh sand and flower petals over the bloodstains.

This, as disgusting as it was, was not as bad as the execution of a woman found guilty of poisoning her husband. She was bound naked in an indecent posture to a metal stanchion; a bull, also apparently drugged, was introduced so as to act out the legend of the bestial desires of Queen Pasiphae. It was hard to tell if the woman had actually survived more than a few minutes. The Atlanteans could only hope it had not been long. The crowd was aroused—frantic: a few discreetly headed to the shadows in the back of the amphitheatre to couple against the wall. Most simply howled for more killings, more rape, more torture.

Ferguson had been transfixed with horror; not wanting to look, but also not wanting to show weakness before these people. He had seen his share of hangings, floggings, bear-baitings, and cock fights, but nothing approaching this abomination. It occurred to him that this was just one city among thousands in this great Empire. Just one. The immense toll of slaughter in a year, the deaths of people sacrificed to the depraved lusts of a debased populace—it was quite beyond imagining. At least, he decided that he did not want to imagine it. Did he really want to deal with these people? Was there anything a small group of travelers from the future could do to influence this culture? Ferguson watched the Games, and despaired. He was not alone. Tavington, hearing much of the same from the entire expedition, was feeling grave doubts himself.

The last set piece had been a mock battle between the "Scythians" and the "Persians." It was not mock in the sense that no weapons were used. Those were real enough. It was a mockery of combat in that the exotically garbed "Scythians" were gladiators, and the "Persians" were the remaining slaves of a rich man who had been murdered by one of his household. The offender had already been crucified; but by law every last one of the man's slaves was to be executed as well. So under the plumed helmets were the white heads of old men and women, young girls, small children grotesquely burdened by swords they could not lift, even babes in arms. Not one of them was spared. The crowd jeered at the slaves' cowardice and ineptitude in defending themselves, and congratulated themselves when justice was done and they could all feel safer.

The governor's deputy asked Ferguson his opinion, and he saw no reason to equivocate. The rest of the party was ominously silent when they left the amphitheatre, as the last of the bodies was being hooked, and dragged out for disposal. They had not stayed long after that day, despite the governor's desire to further amuse them. They had their trading link established; they had obtained most of the resources they required—leather, cork, sulfur, copper, and lead; they had acquired three scholarly Greek slaves (to be freed on arrival in Atlantis) who would be resources in themselves about this world.

The voyage home was a positive relief, and the clean, bracing sea air did its part to dispel the gloom of the company. They were only a few hours out of Gades when they discovered they were carrying yet more cargo. It made a light-hearted coda to a very grim episode.

Young Danny Dalton, the eldest of the orphans the Project had rescued, had celebrated his release from school by immediately enlisting in the Dragoons. He was a tough but decent boy, who was long used to protecting children younger than himself. The squalor of Gades had not fazed him, being used to an equally hideous environment. He had gone below to fetch Ferguson's telescope, and had heard the trembling stowaway's sneeze. She was plainly no danger to anybody, and he was reluctant to drag her forcibly on deck, especially after hearing her say one word he recognized. He found his officer and said apologetically, "She's asking for you, sir."

Bordon was astonished. "For me? How can that be? Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir. She kept saying, 'Bordo, Bordo,' you know, the way those dag—I mean, Romans--said your name. She's really scared, sir. Do you want me to bring her up here?"

"No—no, of course not. I shall go down. You did well, Dalton. Take the Major his telescope, and tell him why I'm going below. I'll see what is to be done."

He found her easily enough when he knew where to look: crouching amidst some crates, clad in a scanty tunic of diaphanous linen. Her face still bore traces of paint under the dirt and tears. She was trained in obedience, and when he told her to come out and follow him, she offered no resistance.

The girl was of considerable interest when she climbed through the hatch. Ferguson came over, as did Alan Swinburne and the Greek he was speaking with, Amyntor the mathematician. Captain Urquhart saw the little impromptu conference and the subject of it, and gave the wheel to one of her sailors.

"And who is this?" she asked frostily. No local girls would be exploited on _her_ watch.

"This little lass," replied Ferguson with an elegant gesture of introduction, "is Clytie, a dancing girl, slave to Governor Vinicius. Formerly, that is. She has decided that she is now slave to Bordo, legate of Verguso of Atlantis."

Urquhart was not amused. This sounded like the thin edge of the wedge. She said, in her stilted, limited Latin, "There are no slaves in Atlantis." Then she saw the girl's terrified expression, and said in an aside to Swinburne, "For God's sake, don't let her imagine we're going to toss her over the side. Tell her she's free."

Swinburne snorted, but explained. This was no consolation at all to the girl, whose only ambition in life so far had been to exchange a hard master for a kind one. She reached out timidly to Bordon, plainly wanting to clutch at his sleeve, but not daring to. Instead, she fell to her knees and started pleading, to everyone's embarrassment.

Urquhart asked Swinburne to translate, for with all the sobs and sniffs, she could only understand one word in five.

He smirked. "Clytie here begs Lord Bordo to accept her as his slave. She thought he'd be pleased, after all his kindness. He praised her beauty and her dancing, which no one ever had—" (here Bordon turned very red) "---and gave her sweet _theobroma _to drink and a soft blanket to sleep upon and did not hurt her. She begs us not to return her to her old master the Governor. There's a lot of more in the same vein—do you want to hear about your own divine beauty?"

"Oh, stow it, Alan." The captain grimaced, and her huge green eyes fixed Bordon with a gimlet stare. She said nothing to him yet, but asked Swinburne, "How old is she anyway?"

In a moment, she had her reply. "Seventeen. It might be nineteen. She has no idea. She never knew her mother, and belonged to a number of owners before ending up in Vinicius' private dance troupe."

"Well," suggested Urquhart slowly, "I suppose she could go to school."

The men rolled their eyes. "My dear Captain Urquhart," Ferguson observed gently, "I dinna think that the New Atlantis School is quite ready for a concubine and dancing girl of Gades." He saw Urquhart's indignant look and lifted a hand in disclaimer. "Mind you, I grant it's hardly the poor lassie's fault—but she's had experiences that perhaps the schoolgirls should be spared the hearing of." He gave Bordon a wry smile. "We're not turning about and taking her back to Vinicius—I'll wager we can all agree to that." There were nods of agreement. "Well, then, let's bring her with us, and let the Colonel and the Executive Council sort her out."

And so Clytie had returned to New Atlantis with the rest of the _Enterprise's_ crew, passengers, and cargo. Unlike the Greek scholars, who had some idea by now where they might fit in with the Atlanteans, there was some puzzling over what to do with Clytie. She was quite illiterate, but could hardly be put in a first grade class. She knew no more English than a few words, and her only skills were dancing, gracefully serving cups of wine, and pleasing men. Diana, as a woman with fluent Latin, guessed from the first that the whole issue would be dropped in her lap; and so it transpired.

"She's pretty," Diana had remarked to her husband shortly after the expedition's return. "Very pretty, now that's she's washed and brushed."

Tavington only grunted, cautious about praising another woman's looks to his wife. Clytie was rather better than pretty in his opinion, with starry dark eyes, a skin like clear honey, thick and lustrous black hair, and a dancer's lithe but womanly body.

"Sally ran up a dress for her—a wonderful sunflower yellow. It seemed appropriate, given her name."

He grunted again, and then looked up sharply when the girl shyly entered the room, dressed in her charming new gown. The dress had dainty short sleeves, cut to flutter like the petals of a flower. It was the final touch needed to make her positively exquisite. Bordon was doomed, and a good thing, too.

And it was not as if she would never dance again: the men of the 18th century had triumphed in some matters of culture. There was a ball once a month in the school gymnasium. While the soldiers had adopted the easy and intimate waltz and the lively polka, the dances for the most part were the reels, minuets, allemandes and quadrilles of their own time. Women from the 21st century, enchanted with men who actually wanted to dance, learned quickly; and each of them had a special dress set aside for these occasions.

Clytie was given a little room in the Town Hall, and could not be persuaded to address Diana as anything but "_domina." _She had proved far from stupid, however. Diana, after dressing her decently (to the girl's grateful joy), began teaching her English and the rudiments of normal behavior as a free woman. In exchange, she helped with the Tavington and Ferguson children, and then would slip off, finding excuses to see Bordon.

Diana was not surprised one morning when she found the girl's room empty. Bordon had been a little lonely, and the girl quite determined: within a month she was sharing his comfortable quarters with him, happy beyond words. Her English was steadily improving, with constant tutelage from four little children and Diana's assistance. Whether she fully understood that she was free, or if she actually understood the concept in any depth, was a matter of guesswork.

Bordon was back at New Atlantis at the moment, in temporary command of the military; and Lisa Seevers was seeing to the administrative end. Their own inspection party would return on Friday morning, in plenty of time to enjoy _Dragonslayer_. If anything untoward arose, there was always the radio; but what could happen on their peaceful islands?

-----

**Notes:** Fans of Edgar Rice Burroughs will note the resemblances between John Carter and Tavington himself. Dark hair, light eyes: splendid swordsman; transplanted to an exotic new world where he finds adventure and love. Sorry, can't help it. I've adored John Carter since I was a kid. I hope the projected film does him justice. Advances in CG have made such a film possible—there was no way to create the warlike, eloquent, and terrifying four-armed, fifteen-foot tall green Martians with earlier technology.

Readers are invited to make their own list of films that might appeal to the imagination of people from the 18th century.

_Lord of the Two Lands_ is the title of a lovely historical fantasy by Judith Tarr. It would make a far better film about Alexander than the sludge presented by Oliver Stone (which was itself a rip-off of Mary Renault's excellent historical novels.)

Gades is modern-day Cadiz, Spain.

No, I didn't make up _vomitoria. _The Romans are the only culture I know of that openly institutionalized bingeing and purging.

The fate of a murdered master's remaining slaves was real Roman law. Not making it up.

In Greek myth, Clytie was a nymph who suffered from unrequited love for the god Apollo. She was transformed into a sunflower; which to this day turns its head to follow the sun. Non-Greek speakers in New Atlantis eventually addressed her namesake as "Clootie." (rhymes with cutie)

Domina--Lady.


	20. Tavington's Atlantis, Part 3

Disclaimer: Oh, for Heaven's sake. Tavington and Bordon not mine.

_In which the Atlanteans give the Roman world another chance._

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 3 **

**A Mediterranean Cruise: April-June, 150 A.D. **

"It's unfair to judge the entire Roman world on the basis of a week in a provincial Spanish—uh—Iberian town." Lyudmilla Nesterenko faced down the rest of the Executive Committee, playing Devil's Advocate, as she often did.

"She's right, you know," agreed Herb Schultz, head of archaeology. "There should be major cultural differences in the Eastern Med. You'll find chariot racing and athletic contests, but many cities, notably Athens and Alexandria, never really embraced Roman-style Games."

Tavington felt a headache coming on. "What are you suggesting, then?"

"A full-scale survey of the Mediterranean," answered Herb happily, rolling out an annotated map. "A three-month cruise, hitting the high points."

Everyone leaned in, watching Herb's moving finger trace the route. "Start with Tingis on the African side and then on to Utica, where we can have a look at the rebuilding of Carthage. On to Leptis Magna, then Cyrene, and then spend at least a week in Alexandria: that will give us time to have a look at the local monuments and make a much better map of the city than we have from Cassius—"

"—Dion Philippides is from Alexandria originally, " Diana pointed out. "Well, Pelusium, anyway. I'm sure he'd do a splendid job as guide."

"That's what I'm counting on," continued Herb, very excited. "Come on, people! This is our chance to see the Lighthouse and Pyramids in nearly pristine shape. We can be tourists at the Tomb of Alexander! We may even be allowed to visit the Library!"

It was impossible not to catch his enthusiasm. This was the sort of adventure that Tavington had longed for. He must go himself. But could the settlement spare him for the months of the tour?

Herb hadn't finished. "Then over to some of the most amazing sites. I think a lot of us want to see what's left of ancient Jerusalem—it's only a short trek from the coast. And then there's Caesarea and Antioch up north. Antioch's nearing its height, and it's a great opportunity." He turned back to the map, smiling to himself. "We may not have time to see Cyprus, so we could go northwest underneath Asia Minor to the island of Rhodes, and then up to Halicarnassus. The Mausoleum should still be intact. I know we can't hit all the Ionian cities, but what about Ephesus and Pergamum, at least? I'd really like to visit the Temple of Diana myself!" Tavington head spun with the glorious, ancient names. He caught Ferguson's eye, and the two men smiled, understanding one another.

Other people smiled at the archaeologist's enthusiasm, and some simply looked thoughtful. Tavington wanted Michael Flynn's opinion, but the geologist was in southern Africa with his "graduate student," Elyssa, and a small team of prospectors, mining the Witwatersrand, the huge ridge that would contain forty percent of all the gold ever mined by the 21st century. In this era, the place was nearly uninhabited, and Michael was keeping contact with any locals to a benign minimum. They had struck a rich vein of gold immediately, and were sending back huge amounts in nuggets and dust. New Atlantis was minting money in Carlos Alvarado's smithy at the Laboratory: copper pennies, silver dimes, and gold dollars.

The 18's had submitted to the logic of decimal money. The entire community had voted on the designs for the coins, and many citizens had submitted their own drawings. The results were magnificent. Even the humble pennies were works of art; showing on the obverse a leaping dolphin, and on the reverse, the legend, NEW ATLANTIS, YEAR 4, ONE CENT. The silver dime showed an image of the goddess Aurora (a tribute to the Aurora Project), rolling back the night sky. And the gold dollar, though not large, was stunning: the Spirit of the Waters of their own city fountain. The coins were similar in size and weight to Roman issue, to facilitate their use in trade with the Empire.

Michael could be gated back tomorrow to go over this new idea of Herb's. The archaeologist was still beaming with joy, calling out the list of great research sites like a child listing his Christmas presents. "—No time for Byzantium or the Euxine, but we can certainly pay a call in Athens. What an opportunity! The Acropolis undamaged, and the Academy! We should see if there's time for a visit to Delphi. In decline in this period, of course, but still—"

_Well,_ thought Tavington. _It's not as if I would have to gone the entire time. Once the ship is docked in various ports, I and some of the specialists can gate in discreetly, and look about. Perhaps it would be safe enough for Diana, at least in Alexandria and Athens… _

"—Possibly a look-in at Syracuse, but definitely a stop in Naples and the villa country around Puteoli and Baiae." Herb paused to take a breath. "Then, of course, to Rome."

The room seemed to move. Every single committee member had shifted in his or her seat. Rome. All sorts of things could happen. And a Rome of a very distinctive period, before the construction of the Baths of Caracalla and Septimus Severus. The great forum of Trajan would be nearly new. The vast palace of Palace of Domitian would lie north of the Circus Maximus and south west of the Flavian Amphitheatre, known to them all as the Colosseum. After their experiences in a town like Gades, the thought of Rome was less inviting than ominous.

Herb sensed the unspoken words in the air, and hurried through his itinerary. "OK. We'll probably need a week in Rome at the least. Maybe then a brief stop in Massilia or Cartago Nova, and then a courtesy call on the governor at Gades before returning home."

Ferguson snorted.

"I know, I know, Patrick," Herb waved his hands. "I know you don't like the guy, but it looks like he liked _you_."

Lyudmilla added her own thoughts. "And it would be valuable to make a follow-up visit. We need to get some idea how the town was affected by the earlier contact."

"And if the governor asks us to give Clytie Bordon back," remarked Paul Seevers, "we'll say we never heard of her!"

There was general laughter, and the meeting broke up, with the consensus being that Herb should work up his plan, talk it over with Michael Flynn, Lesley Urquhart, and Alan Swinburne, and present it for further refinement next week. Tavington was fairly convinced by Herb's arguments already. It was, in fact, a very good scheme. It was important to meet this world openly: to show the flag, so to speak. Better that the real citizens of New Atlantis should present themselves than to rely on rumor and gossip to portray them justly. Herb did have a point: they might find more congenial spirits in the eastern parts of the Empire.

Certainly their Greek freedmen were settling in fairly well—especially young Dion, who had adapted to the point that he would soon be teaching Greek at the school. Amyntor was ceaselessly absorbed in his mathematics, enchanted with the manipulations made easy by Arabic numerals.

The third, Lysis, a man of Tavington's own age, who had spent his whole life as a tutor to one rich family after another, was a different matter: a quiet, self-effacing man who had suffered severe culture shock for several months. While he had not learned English as rapidly as Dion, Tavington thought it likely that he was simply taking it all in without showing how much he comprehended. He was a tall, slender man, with long, fine-boned hands, and a humble, stooped posture. At first he had hardly left his room at the Laboratory, except when Alan or Herb came by to escort him to his study, or to the library and the school on the Square.

Surprisingly, Lysis showed some aptitude in teaching adult women Greek. That had been one of his duties in the past: helping wealthy matrons attain a gloss of Greek culture to impress their neighbors. Diana, Marianne, Lyudmilla, and Gretchen met with him two afternoons a week for language immersion. Tavington laughed softly to himself. That was what they called it: he would describe it as a genteel gathering in the Tavington living quarters of learned ladies intent on henpecking to death a mild-mannered scholar over tea, cucumber sandwiches, and chocolate biscuits. Other women took part from time to time, but the four of them were the core. Even Emily would occasionally join them after school, showing off her new-found maturity, conversing primly in her brand-new Greek. Tavington felt for Lysis, correcting their declensions and warily accepting refreshments, meek as a beaten dog.

It had probably been a mistake to house the Greeks in the Laboratory. Tavington remembered how little he had liked the unfamiliar stainless steel halls himself. However, Alan had kept his rooms at the Laboratory, and as he had the most dealings with the Greeks, they needed to be close at hand. At least Lysis would now go on walks about the city, up into the hills; and then would go down to the docks, staring out to sea. When asked, he did not appear to be homesick. He made it quite clear that he was glad to be free, and glad to be in New Atlantis. It was all so strange, though; and while none of the Atlanteans had told the Greeks outright that they were time-travelers, it was evident that the Greeks understood that there was something extremely unusual about the inhabitants of this island. The electric lights and the flying machines were only the most vivid manifestations.

-----

The Mediterranean Survey was scheduled to sail on June fifth. Once again, Ferguson would lead the landing party, accompanied by a mixed force of Dragoons and Volunteers—all called Marines for the purposes of the voyage. Captain Urquhart, her first officer Arwen, and the five women sailors and the military force would remain permanently aboard ship. With them would travel Herb Schultz, who was head of research for the voyage, Alan Swinburne, and small party of engineers and scientists. Dion (who had acclimated to the extent of using his patronymic Philippides as a last name in the style of the Atlanteans) would be their local guide, especially in his home province of Egypt, and in Syria and Asia as well, where his travels had taken him previously.

Amyntor would also go, and would prove useful in the Western Empire. He was Massiliote by birth, and had once traveled to Rome with a former master. The party would also look about for other talented individuals who could be recruited or bought. Lysis proved so frightened and horrified when it was suggested that he sail on the _Enterprise_ that the Committee concluded that it would be better not to force the matter, but to let him stay in Atlantis and continue (and expand) his tutoring duties throughout the summer.

Gretchen Randalls requested that Ferguson see if he could find a reputable woman physician. It appeared that there was a gender division of labor in certain medical conditions, and Gretchen was very interested in the pharmacology of the ancient Mediterranean. After some discussion, she persuaded Tavington and the committee to let her join the expedition as its physician. Barring a unexpected disaster on New Atlantis or Numenor, the three other doctors were more than enough to provide medical care, even with Mark spending much of his time in Africa or Oklahoma with Michael's miners.

Tavington thought it important to let all the citizens of New Atlantis have a look at their new world. Gates would be opened whenever the ship was docked, and tourists from the islands could have a peep at the various ports. To his surprise, some were not interested in all, and were too happy and busy building up their new society (in their words) "to waste time gawking at a bunch of primitives." He himself would check in periodically, and would actually join the voyage between Cyrene and Alexandria, and then from Ephesus to Athens.

Beyond that, he was not yet certain. The Roman issue had them all concerned. If the ship were impounded by a hostile government, there was a recall procedure that would gate it back to its berth in Atlantis harbor, but that would tip their hand in an irrevocably public way.

A few days before departure, Tavington was surprised to see the lanky figure of Lieutenant Drew Markham at the door of his office, asking for a word with him. Tavington had been wary of Markham for quite a long time after their narrow escape from the forces of twenty-first century law. Markham, in turn, had been wary of the motley crew of 18th century soldiers he had been thrust among. He had gradually established his authority as an officer, aided by the implicit support of the local command structure, and by his own obvious education and physical prowess. There had been something of a dust-up when his relationship with his former partner, Doctor Carolyn Kelly, had dissolved amidst mutual recriminations and an unfortunately public shouting match.

Observing it at one of their regular monthly balls, Tavington had been secretly smug. It was exactly what he had hoped. Diana and he had felt some concern about Kelly and Markham's personal loyalty to one another, and had wondered if they would become the core of any disaffected elements in their society. But separating them had worked. Pretty and irremediably serious, Carolyn Kelly was thriving in her new environment, and had found a new set of friends and associates in the Atlantis Hospital, the one section of the Laboratory that could be accessed by the public at large (for obvious reasons). Last year, her wedding with her colleague, Mark Magliore, had been a great social event. Their first child, a girl, had been born only two months ago.

Markham, meanwhile, was odd-man-out. He had thrown himself into his duties as an officer, and frequently led patrols into the interior, mapping the island in detail; a very useful endeavor when needing to present soldiers with their personal land grants. Being a stickler for the rule of law, he had been indefatigable in tracking down the runners who had hidden away when the settlement had broken its ties with the dystopia of the 21st century. Now, seeing the man, dressed in his red coat, hair neatly queued as became a proper officer, Tavington hid his own complacency, and wondered if Markham was going to request assignment to the expedition. Tavington wanted him here in Atlantis. He was better at being a lawman than anyone else, and neither his Latin nor his Greek was up to Ferguson's or Bordon's standard.

"Come in, Markham. Sit down."

Markham obediently sat, and said nothing for a moment. Tavington was on the brink of telling the man to spit it out, when Markham spoke up. "Colonel, you're taking those Greeks along with you."

"Yes." Tavington's tone was slightly inquisitive.

"Are you going to have people keeping an eye on them?"

"You do not think they can be trusted?"

"It's not that—" Markham paused, and then contradicted himself. "No. I _don't_ trust them not to talk. Dion can't stop talking. It's impossible for him not to spill everything he knows to everybody. I don't think they know what might and might not harm us. I can see why they'd be useful, but I don't think they should be allowed to go off alone, or talk uncensored. Do you want everybody to know our capabilities?"

"I see your point." And Tavington did. Some such concerns had been addressed already. Ferguson had briefed his own soldiers about the need to keep their mouths shut and not brag to tavern acquaintances and whores. The science team had met and discussed parameters. Gretchen felt strongly that medical knowledge could not morally be kept secret. Granted that exception, the Atlanteans had decided to be discreet about their own technology. The ship itself was enough of an innovation. It would be interesting to see if any other lateen sails were now unfurling in the Mediterranean.

He unbent enough to ask Markham, "What would you suggest?"

"The Greeks should be told not to describe what's on the island—though I guess it would be OK for them to say how great it all is—good propaganda. But they each should have an assigned minder to watch them. Well, someone like Sergeant McKenzie. He's a good guy, but he won't let them get away with anything."

Tavington agreed. He was quite fond of McKenzie himself, and very glad that his sergeant's broken heart had been healed with the aid a charming nurse. Marisol McKenzie had continued her hospital work part-time, leaving her little boys at the nursery school.

Markham hadn't finished. "I won't lie to you. I'm worried about this whole expedition. We're only a few hundred people a couple hundred miles from the world's greatest empire. It has millions of people, a good infrastructure, and an attitude of "If you're not part of the Empire, you soon will be."

Tavington laughed. "Well put, Lieutenant. There a great deal of sense in what you say. Dion and Amyntor will have their 'minders,' and shore leave will be carefully restricted. Our people who visit will not be allowed to wander off alone."

He decided to tell Markham something that had been a secret among only a few on the Council. "McKenzie and that electrical engineer Marlowe have a special mission of their own. They will locate and map possible gate sites at all our ports of call—places enough out of the way to be used if anyone needs to slip into these cities and conduct intelligence work. These will give also us another way to bring in additional visitors. You yourself may find time for a look-in."

"Maybe. I don't deny that it's exciting, Colonel. But people act like this is a movie, or a vacation. It isn't. Those Romans aren't our friends, and it's not beyond the realm of possibility that some of our people might be kidnapped and everything they know screwed out of them."

Tavington smiled grimly. "Believe me, Markham, you are not the only one to have such an unpleasant notion. Care will be taken, and our people provided with emergency homing beacons. Any attempt at kidnapping will likely result in the victim abruptly disappearing, and possibly taking some of the kidnappers along."

"Then you should designate one place here in Atlantis as the emergency rescue gate, and have security there whenever the team is in contact with the locals."

"An excellent suggestion. You will write up a duty roster. We can use the enclosed biology lab."

Markham saw the irony of it. "If it could hold me, it can hold a Roman. I'll get on it right away, sir."

-----

The expedition was seen off with so many kisses, that Captain Urquhart swore they would miss the tide. Ferguson was sorry to leave his newborn daughter Mary. His devoted wives, Sally and Polly, shed tears and elicited promises to be careful, to be safe, not to forget them. Neither of them had much interest in seeing the sights of the ancient Mediterranean, other than the city of Rome itself. Of his children, only Annie was old enough to understand that her Papa was going away, and she bawled lustily, infecting all the other children present with her distress.

Bordon's lovely Clytie was equally grieved. If he had not commanded to desist, she would have scratched her cheeks, and torn her clothes to display her misery; but Bordon expressly forbade her to make such a spectacle of herself. She glowered when Diana leaned in to kiss both officers' cheeks, and responded by possessively kissing Bordon until he had to gently remove her clinging hands.

The entire town seemed to have come down to the docks to see them off. Many individuals made last minute additions to the trade goods, which were noted down in the manifest. Beside the items sent by the Committee, nearly everyone had contributed something made or saved: costume jewelry, clothing, pottery and china, plastic toys—all sorts of crafts or treasures that had been kept back, even from the first expedition. In the hold was Jennifer's latest crop of cocoa, carefully processed and even more carefully packaged. It had been their most popular export. It was impossible to grow a great deal of it, and some had to be kept for their own use: but perhaps in the future they could make arrangements in West Africa or in South America to grow it in larger amounts. On this trip, it would not be sold, but given as gifts to the local authorities, "to keep them sweet," as Jennifer had said, shyly venturing a joke.

Otherwise, the brilliantly colored glass, the bags of sugar, coffee, tea, the pineapples, the mangoes, the superior citrus fruits, some of their stock of luxury fabric, a selection of vivid chemical dyes were packed and ready. And packed too was much of their second vintage of Atlantean wine, made from the old Madeira recipe. It had been a prime favorite in Tavington's time: strong and sweet, and popular too because it traveled well. A bottle of Madeira could be uncorked and remain drinkable and delicious for months, aside from collecting a bit of dust. The celebrations held after finding it to have been a success had been memorable.

There was time only for a last handshake between Tavington and his officers. Once again, he noted that Captain Urquhart's grip was as firm as any man's, though she was as distractingly beautiful as ever.

-----

"She's expecting a child: that's why she was so distraught."

"She? Who?" Tavington was nearly asleep, and did not at first follow his wife's observation. Poor Diana was very close to her delivery date herself, terribly uncomfortable and restless, and they were both sorry that Gretchen would not be with her for the birth.

"Clytie. She's expecting. I thought I told you."

"Forgive me, my love, I do not recall. Well, what is the trouble? I should think she would be pleased."

"Oh, indeed she is. She kept it a secret as long as possible. When Carolyn Kelly confronted her with it, she burst into tears, and it took some time to get her calmed down. And then, when Carolyn tried to give her some vitamins, she thought---well--she _is_ happy, now that she understands that she'll be allowed to carry it to term."

Tavington simply felt bewildered, and did not pretend to be anything else.

"It's not her first pregnancy, you see: not by a long shot," Diana informed him. "With all she's gone through since she was a child, it's hardly surprising. Whenever she was found to be pregnant, she was given an herbal tea made from silphium. It's a wild grass that makes a very safe and reliable abortifacient in these ancient times. Gretchen is interested in finding and analyzing some. It was extinct by the end of the Classical period."

Tavington prompted her gently, "And so, Clytie—"

"She told us, 'a dancer is of no use when she is carrying.' I gather this happened three or four times. She can hardly believe she's going to be allowed to keep this one."

Tavington grunted, hiding his queasiness. "Well, good for her. It will do her good to have something else to think about. And just as well that it's over a year since she and Bordon… At least, he won't have to wonder…" His voice trailed off.

"Will?"

To her great disgust, her husband was fast asleep.

-----

"I wanted a _sister!"_ Iris pouted. "Little boys are mostly bad."

"Hush, Iris," said Emily, very firmly. "We have a nice little brother, and Mom doesn't need to hear complaints right now."

"But why can't I have a sister? Annie got a sister!"

It was almost an old-fashioned levee, the day after Tavington's new son's birth. A mob of women and children, shrill as starlings, had invaded the sanctity of the bedchamber he shared with Diana. She was looking much better than she had last night, propped up on a mountain of pillows and holding court.

Sally was herself enthroned in a deeply cushioned chair with her three-week-old Mary. All the women and children who lived in the Town Hall had come to pay their compliments, other friends were arriving; and Tavington, forced to play host, slunk around the edges of the gathering, smirking as required.

There were Lisa and the orphans she had adopted; Polly with little Jamie, fussing over everyone; Emily in her glory, laying down the law to the younger children; timid Jennifer bringing a pretty potted orchid as a gift; Summer with a plate of little honey cakes; Clytie admiring all the babies, and proudly announcing her condition to anyone who might not have heard.

Tavington understood that bearing more children and increasing the size of their settlement was important work; but he was feeling overwhelmed at the moment, as dozens of little hands reached for his, and dozens of little voices demanded his attention. Now Iris was on the verge of tears, expecting someone to produce a baby sister for her at demand.

It did not help that Will was gloating, stroking his baby brother's pink cheek. "Thank you, Mommy."

"Yes, very nice, Will," said his father, not wanting to further upset Iris. "Let's let the ladies talk now, and you and I shall go for a walk. Ruffian has that new colt."

"We have to take Jamie," Will demanded. "He's a man, too."

"_I_ like baby horses," Iris said, her small face growing red.

Diana held little Jason closer, and rolled her eyes meaningfully at Polly. "And what did Jamie think of Mary?"

"Oh," laughed Polly. "Jamie is too young to know the difference. He thinks she's a new plaything. It's all I can do to keep him from poking her eyes out!"

In the end, Tavington went for the proposed walk with his twins, a hand to each, and without Jamie, who Polly explained to Will could not walk so far, man or not. Actually, it was a pleasant time for all three of them. Emily was of an age to be more interested in the women's conversation, and she was a little afraid of horses. Away from the noise, Tavington had time to converse with his twins, and distract them with the charms of Rascal, who, after all, "was better than an old baby, because he could walk!"

The colt was an endearing little fellow, well-shaped and bright-eyed; and Tavington planned to train him as a Dragoon mount. Ruffian, luckily, was a good-tempered mare, and not alarmed at the children's interest. Still, Tavington thought it wise to explain why they should not pet the colt just yet. Instead, very carefully, the children were encouraged to stroke Ruffian, and allowed to use the currycomb for a few minutes.It was so engrossing that Tavington did not hear himself being addressed at first.

"Colonel?"

"Yes: what is it, my boy?"

It was David Enesco, the teen-aged son of the radio engineer. He was spending his summer away from school working with his father, learning the art of radio communications. Summer was a time for the older children to busy themselves with apprenticeships of a sort; helping with the agricultural work, learning from the artisans, studying with the scholars or scientists, or getting a taste of military life. Two of the youngsters, in fact, were sailing with the _Enterprise _this summer. It was tremendously important that knowledge not be lost; and these summer adventures gave young people a better idea about their future careers. David was plainly very excited and happy to be a part of an important project.

"It's the _Enterprise_, Colonel. They've weighed anchor in Tingis, and they're ready to make their report to you."

"Very good. Let me take the children home, and I'll walk to the Laboratory with you." There were the inevitable complaints, but Tavington knew when to be firm. Picking up Iris, and then giving a hand to Will, he hurried back to the Town Hall, and caught the end of the gathering as the women were dispersing. The twins saw Emily and ran to tell her about Rascal. Diana noticed Tavington's preoccupied frown.

"Is everything all right, Will?" Behind him, she saw the young boy hanging back, and called out, "Hello, David! Have a cake."

The boy, embarrassed at being in the same room with a woman lying in her bed, blushed and slouched over to the platter on the table.

Tavington smiled indulgently and said to his wife, "Yes, entirely. David here tells me that the _Enterprise_ has arrived in Tingis. I am just going to the Laboratory to hear their report." In an aside to the teenager, looking longingly at the remaining treats, he said, "Take some along. Otherwise the twins will make themselves sick with them." He almost laughed at the boy's heartfelt sigh of relief as they left and descended the stairs.

After the last expedition, Tavington considered himself an expert with the radio. The tinny voices, traveling hundreds of miles, were recognizably Pattie Ferguson and Lesley Urquhart. They had arrived at the first stop of their Grand Tour of the Mediterranean. Tingis, Ferguson said, was even grimier than Gades, and the Governor even more ingratiating. They would have to stay a few days or seem churlish.

"But I told him I've no taste for Roman Games. He didna seem too surprised. It appears that our reputation preceded us."

More faintly, Tavington heard Captain Urquhart in the background commenting, "So much the better!"

----

The trip was going well. Small amounts of powdered cocoa, or _theobroma_ (since the scientific name was more pronounceable for the locals) were duly doled out as gifts to the delighted local officials. It seemed that chocolate's word-of-mouth reputation was high. The seas were smooth, the skies clear, and the citizens of the Empire reasonably welcoming, and not unreasonably curious. Their reputation had indeed preceded them. Ferguson reported that they were being received very hospitably, but that the entertainment was not gladiatorial combats, but less gory entertainments. In Tingis, they had attended a very interesting private concert by a small orchestra of flutes (well, _called_ flutes, but really reed instruments that sounded more like oboes), lyres and kitharae.

"Actually, quite beautiful," Ferguson opined. "A great pity your lady was not there."

"If you can, see about purchasing some musical instruments. I know she'd be interested."

"Ha! 'Twould not be hard to purchase a kithara and a kitharist to boot! Human flesh is cheap here in North Africa—cheaper than even in the Caribbean when I lived in Barbados!"

"Well, why not?" Tavington shrugged, and then felt rather foolish, since Ferguson was not there to see the gesture. "Your party it there to study the culture as well as trade. If you come upon an accomplished musician—preferably free—see if he can be persuaded."

"Just as likely to be a woman. Have you any objections?"

"No—none at all. In fact, it might be even better. A woman might find with the Learned Ladies less terrifying. I'll be joining you on Wednesday. That will give you a day to show me Cyrene before we sail to Alexandria."

"There's much to see."

-----

Cyrene was very different than Gades. Just as crowded and smelly, perhaps: but the smells were different. The city was older, more Greek; the temples handsomer, the gods rather more exotic, the agora less sordid than the forum of Gades. Tavington wondered if it was really better than Gades, or if he was simply more prepared.

It was pleasant, at least, to be incognito, to be traveling as another of Ferguson's officers. They understood enough of the culture to accept that Mediterranean peoples would consider it unseemly and undignified for a head of state to cruise in a single ship, without the pomp that traditionally accompanied such individuals. The last thing they wanted was for Rome to learn Atlantis' actual size, or their population's small numbers.

Their hosts were friendly, considered them a novelty, and were sufficiently impressed by the ship itself and by their trade goods. It would do for a start. Alexandria, Tavington realized would be a greater challenge: a huge metropolis, sophisticated, multi-ethnic, and proud of its achievements.

As they embarked once again, and left Cyrene behind, Tavington brooded on the matter, leaning on the rail. The city itself lay low against the water, alive with the sharp cries of fishermen and the calls of sea birds. The coast was a brown haze; the water they slid through the wine-dark sea of Homer. _Well, perhaps not wine,_ Tavington thought whimsically_, and certainly not the deep red-brown of good Madeira. Here near the Nile Delta it's more like a dark ale with a good head of foam in our wake._

The voyage to Alexandria was interesting, but happily uneventful. The craft they passed were mainly fishing boats. Dark men gawked at the huge iron ship, its unfamiliar sails flaming in the brilliant sun. Once they encountered a trireme, its triple decks of oars cutting through the water like razors. Tavington stood near the prow and his eyes met the soldiers on the trireme's upper deck. The gaze lingered, not hostile, but not friendly, either; warriors recognizing one another for what they were.

A day out of Alexandria, they anchored. Tavington did not want Diana to miss their first sight of Alexandria. Besides, there was work to be done, entering this particular city. They had known, if Dion had not told them, that they would have a welcoming party to deal with. All ships entering the harbor of Alexandria were boarded, and any book found was borrowed, to make a copy for the Great Library. Everyone went carefully over the ship, searching for all books and other items that would raise awkward questions. Captain Urquhart decided to get rid of all of her charts temporarily—they might be seized under cover of looking for books. Two of the manuscripts they had obtained in Gades were kept on board—to give the officials something to satisfy them, and to deflect interest in other things they might notice. A gate was opened to send the classified material temporarily out of sight, and to admit the group of tourists that would be seeing Alexandria.

It was quite a large group, over fifty. His entire family came: Diana with the new baby; Emily, taking charge of the twins. After kissing her husband, Diana greeted Alan, who was less snarky than usual. The man was genuinely excited—even happy. Cameras were readied, and the ship was underway once more, on its way to the great metropolis of the eastern Mediterranean.

And it did not disappoint. The Lighthouse on the Pharos was brilliantly white: a vision of splendor and an engineering marvel. Cameras were snapping, and Herb Schultz was making a recording of their passage. Dion was already at work, pointing out the sights to the Atlanteans.

"The Royal Quarter," he declared. "And that is the head of the Argeus. A little further down that way is the Tomb of Alexander."There was a murmur of excitement, and the young Greek swelled with pride.

A boat from the harbor came out to meet them, and the search for books was curiously perfunctory. They had expected to be met by a harbormaster's clerk; but Serapion, a Greco-Egyptian with meticulously curled hair and a white, wide smile, was on the governor's staff. The Atlanteans had been awaited with great anticipation: the governor in Cyrenaica had sent a message by ship immediately after hearing their next destination. Of course they were welcome. Serapion gestured at the crowds at the wharf, eager to see the Great Iron Ship. They were to be the governor's guests, and would be welcome throughout the city.

Ferguson, as the head of the expedition, was naturally offered the most florid courtesies. The red coats of all the soldiers made them stand out in the crowd of Alexandrians, who were for the most part dressed in shades of white and tan. However, it was Lesley Urquhart who was the crowd's favorite. There was loud and fervent praise of her beauty, and some speculation from the working class about her possible divine origins. _A beautiful woman—piloting a ship—mysterious powers—a ship like none other—rare and precious goods—food of the gods—could it be---? _

A detail of marines and sailors was left on board, and promised shore leave when others could take their place. Chariots and litters were provided, and the large party was escorted in a kind of parade to the Royal Quarter, for a reception and banquet with the governor; through the broad streets of the wealthy, past the Great Library and the Museum. The bright sun reflected off white marble, making it almost painful to gaze on these glorious sights. Crowds gathered, waiting to see them. Tavington, standing just behind Ferguson in a ceremonial chariot with gilded wreaths, was feeling rather dazzled by the grandeur of it all. The Atlanteans were the toast of Alexandria. He remembered a line of Marlowe:

_"Is it not passing brave to be a king, _

_And ride in triumph through Persepolis?" _

-----

**Note:** Silphium was a real plant—and the reason that abortion was a common practice in ancient Greece and Rome. Male physicians were never involved with this (re: Hippocratic oath), but there were plenty of female healers and—yes—physicians who were. No one ever succeeded in domesticating the plant, and it seems to have been completed gone by the end of the Roman Empire. In some of the ancient Mediterranean cultures, women (except slaves, of course) had a degree of control of their bodies during pregnancy, but at birth the child was the sole property of the father, who could choose to have it "exposed." Leaving a baby to die of exposure (especially if it was female or otherwise "deficient") was the practice: this did not incur ritual blood-guilt by outright killing your own flesh and blood. You were simply leaving the child in the lap of the gods—and for all you knew, some kind stranger would take it in. Myths are full of such stories, but whether this kind of adoption was an actual practice, or just wishful thinking, is unclear.

A kithara was a multi-stringed Greek harp—a much more demanding instrument than a lyre, which tended to have only from five to eight strings.


	21. Tavington's Atlantis, part 4

_Disclaimer: No, Tavington and Bordon are not mine._

The New Atlanteans continue their exploration of the Roman world. Tavington receives a startling communication from his wife.

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 4 **

**In the Harbors of the Middle Sea: July, 150 A.D. **

A planned city, Tavington and Diana agreed, was a marvelous thing. Their own little New Atlantis had been made with loving care, and was delightful enough. Certainly vast and opulent Alexandria, laid out as it was, showing its beauties to best advantage, like one of the great courtesans for which the city was famed, was altogether splendid.

Pattie Ferguson, as leader of the embassy, was lodged in the old Ptolemaic palace. Tavington and Diana were discreetly part of his entourage. They were given their own gorgeous quarters, with a view of the harbor, and settled in to enjoy palace life. The baby, little as he was, was proving a hardy little fellow, and fussed only infrequently.

The palace was surprisingly full of children. Some were slaves, of course, but some were the children of free servants, and some the children of members of the governor's staff. The governor's own children, it appeared, were already grown, and safely home in Rome pursuing careers and raising families of their own. It was still a lively group. Emily had been warned to guard her tongue. Tavington was not worried about her: she was, if anything, too prudent for her years. It was as well she was with them. She would watch the little ones, and keep baby Jason quiet for the few hours that Diana could slip away for sight-seeing or entertainments. The children had their own pleasant entertainments, and even their own welcoming party, a rather spontaneous and carefree affair, in one of the sheltered courtyard gardens.

The governor of Egypt was a genial and cultivated man. Manlius had earned his plum assignment by his evident keen wits and remarkable tact. They were feasted lavishly, but not vulgarly, in more a Greek than Roman style. The governor's wife, Lollia Merula, was curious about Lesley Urquhart, but a little afraid of her; and instead cultivated Diana.

The entertainment was more erotic than Tavington was quite prepared for, especially in company with his wife; but it was also very beautiful: a pair of dancers miming the tale of Cupid and Psyche. Even the musicians were perfectly groomed and equipped with instruments that were inlaid with precious woods and metals, tortoiseshell and amber. Drums beat, little silver cymbals clashed sweetly. The thrumming of the harps supported the flutes in an irresistible symphony. Half clad or less, their hands shimmering expressively, the young man and woman created a vision of longing and love, unrequited and then fulfilled, exquisite and arousing. Reclining beside him on an sumptuous dining couch, Diana smiled teasingly at him, and he was unable to conceal his own desire: he would have to think of something interesting to do that would not inconvenience his wife, who was not yet healed enough for what he most wanted. He sat back to enjoy the dance, and then managed to return the smile. He had thought of something that would do very well indeed.

In the following days, Tavington was back and forth between the palace compound and the ship. Going down to the docks one day accompanied by their liaison Serapion, he saw a little crowd of Alexandrians—craftsmen and laborers from their dress-- leaning out from the wharf, straining to touch the cold steel of the Enterprise's hull. They grinned and drew back, talking excitedly together.

Serapion, impeccable in his white tunic and red bordered himation, grinned himself, and told Tavington, "They feel they're touching a divine thing. It has great power. You do not realize the stir that you Atlanteans have created."

Tavington raised his brows inquisitively. "And do they imagine the divine ship to be crewed by divine beings?" he asked, laughing.

Serapion regarded him thoughtfully. "It is clear to any rational being that you are something new under the sun." His teeth flashed white, contrasting with his dark skin. "The gods are everywhere: one never know when one might be entertaining them unawares. And, of course, there are new ones all the time. Indeed, for example, one may name our revered Emperors in Rome."

"Do you truly consider them gods?"

"They have the power of life and death over all: and thus, yes—they are godlike enough in that sense." He laughed. "At least the Emperors of late have been benevolent gods—a great improvement from the days of Nero and Caius Caesar Caligula!"

"But does an act of the Senate—a body composed of mortal men--confer true divinity?"

"If you wish to consider the philosophic aspects of such matters, Oilion," he said, using Tavington's alias—the closest the Greeks could get to his given name, "you must engage in debate with the scholars of the Library,after the fashion ofyour countryman Alan! I am only a court functionary, a facilitator of cordial relations, and no sophist. It is true that the Jews here in Alexandria follow their own ways—as well as all the Jewish cults, like the Christians."

"Are there Christians in Alexandria?"

"Yes, very many. Some of them are even respectable and intelligent individuals. But god-mad, like the Jews. One wishes to live at peace with gods, like the good Serapis, for whom I am named. Would you care to visit his temple? It is one of the finest in Alexandria. He is a good god, and a giver of gifts, and not a furious deity who threatens his followers with death and fire! Or condemns his own son to crucifixion! All of your party should come! It is a beautiful place, and your great pilot, the Lady Uccarte," here Serapion's eyes slid slyly to Tavington and his voice softened, "has expressed a desire to see more of the Canopic Way. The Governor wishes to show you every courtesy, and we could make a little expedition of it, down the Argeus to the Tomb of Alexander, and then turn onto Canopic Way and see all the sights there. It leads right to the Temple of Serapis."

"I'll mention it to Ferguson."

At that moment Lesley Urquhart appeared on deck. Her thick hair, dark blond and sunstreaked, blew gently in the light breeze, and surrounded her head in a golden nimbus. The attention of the crowd of loungers was riveted. The captain cast a sardonic eye at the men on the quay and then ignored them. They, nearly to a man, bowed shyly, touching a hand to their foreheads in respect.

Tavington turned to make an ironic remark to Serapion, but found him staring as raptly as the common folk, though in a more gentleman-like manner. He sighed, and let the Alexandrian admire her unhindered.

-----

It would be a wrench to leave Alexandria. The extraordinary hospitality, the magnificence of the city, the sights to be seen further up the Nile caused the week to stretch to two. The tour of Alexandria could not be refused. All the regular tourists were barred for the day, and the Atlanteans were ushered into the dark solemnity of Alexander's Tomb.

Behind his wall of rippled glass, miraculously preserved by the funerary arts of the Egyptians, Alexander the Great was enthroned in ineffable glory. Tavington felt his head spin a little as they stepped over the threshold, and was so embarrassed at the idea of swooning like a woman that he took refuge in making light of the experience.

"I can only hope," he remarked rather airily to Diana, "that after five hundred years _I_ still look as eligible."

"He _is_ in splendid shape. I really can't tell where Augustus damaged the nose placing the gold crown on his head."

"I daresay the embalmers made him a new nose of wax," said Ferguson, thoroughly enjoying the somewhat macabre spectacle. "The whole thing could be a wax effigy, even. Augustus might have tried to see if he were real by giving the nose a wee tweak." The two officers shared a mordant laugh, much to the scandal of the curator, who was gearing up for his presentation. Diana glared at her husband and his friend, and turned politely to the Alexandrian, who waxed eloquent in his description of the tomb's history.

Alan Swinburne, overhearing them, snorted, and whispered to Diana, "With any encouragement, those two will play the Mark Twain gambit, and ask the curator, 'Is he _dead?_'"

"Stop it," hissed Diana. "You're every bit as bad!" She nudged her husband, "I thought you admired Alexander!"

"I do, most heartily," Tavington assured her. "But this is all rather grotesque. I can't believe Alexander would have liked the rabble staring at his corpse. Perhaps I shall ask him someday." Despite his words, he was absorbing it all avidly. One could see beyond the stark bones and the parchment-like skin to something of the youth and beauty that had once inhabited that fragile shell. The dim light added to the atmosphere. This one sight made his entire adventure in both future and distant past worthwhile. And he _would _see the living Alexander: somehow, someday, he would manage it.

The rest of the day was equally successful: so successful that Manlius arranged a river cruise up the Nile to Memphis to see the Pyramids. The city came out to see them head south out of the Gate of the Sun to the waiting boats on Lake Mareotis. It would be a two day journey: first through the canal to Canopus, and then up the Nile to the ancient monuments. The boatmen sang; the wind caught the sails, and carried them past the palms and crocodiles into a magical world. Herb Schultz was transfixed, and exclaimed eagerly that it was nearly the same song, the same experience as he had had two thousand years later when working on the University of Chicago Epigraphic Project.

Time stopped, or rather, rolled back further into the past. Blindingly white, the Pyramids, still clad in their sheaths of polished limestone, anchored them to the spot. The Sphinx, nearly pristine, and much like an elegant predator at rest, looked down at them with an air of bemused detachment.

They wandered through the funerary temples. The real Egyptians—not Romans like Manlius, or Greeks like his secretary, or even Greco-Egyptians like Serapion---were a different people entirely. Ever busy busy with the work of centuries, they seemed indifferent to yet another passing group of travelers.

The day came when the Atlanteans had to explain what their cameras were, and what they did, and Manlius wanted to see the pictures; and then he wanted them to take a picture of him, and then of his wife Lollia, and then both of them with Ferguson, and then a picture of Lollia and Diana together. After some consultation, they showed him how an old-fashioned camera worked, and how the pictures were developed in a chemical bath. Manlius was delighted with the images, and Swinburne showed him how to use the camera himself. The pictures would have to be developed and given to him before they left, for there was really no time to explain the technology in detail, nor could the Romans have reproduced it easily if they had. One of the engineers did give some of the scholars at the library written information about the process used in the earliest days of photography. Possibly they could recreate the art on their own.

Back in Alexandria, they attended a play by Menander that none of them had heard of before. They were all eager to see theatrical masks in use: historians had wondered if the presentations were clumsy. But at a distance, the masks looked human and expressive. They were really too far, in the great bowl of the theater, under the morning sun, to have seen the actors' facial expressions anyway. The comedy was performed with a great deal of wit and color, and it was another wonderful day in Alexandria.

Herb Schultz had had something of a disappointment: his projected trip to Jerusalem had been cancelled. It was going to take too much time to travel inland. Furthermore, Governor Manlius, Serapion, and their other sources all assured them that the city was not worth seeing: it was a wreck, destroyed by the twin blows of its sack a century before under Vespasian, and the violence only fifteen years before during the Bar Kokhba revolt. In fact, Jerusalem had been razed and replaced with a new Roman city named Aelia Capitolina. Jews were forbidden to live there, and many had migrated south, swelling the already huge Jewish quarter of Alexandria.

At any rate, they would have to leave soon. Questions would soon be raised about the Atlanteans who visited the ship and were not seen again, and about Atlanteans who had not been noticed disembarking on the day of the arrival. It added much to their aura of mystery.

Besides, Diana was exhausted, and she and the children needed the comforts of home. She and most of the current tourists would be gated back to Atlantis as soon as they boarded the _Enterprise_. Another group would head north with them. Tavington himself needed to get back to Atlantis and his own work. He would rejoin the ship at Athens, but that would give him a good two weeks. There was no time to see everything; though, perhaps, he might manage a day at Ephesus.

To their surprise, they found that they had some applicants eager to join them. Serapion had been given leave by Manlius to travel with the Atlanteans, rather to their discomfiture. Quick discussion ensued, and it was decided that he could; and if he had questions about where people had disappeared to, he could just wonder about it.

Their fame had spread: Gretchen had found another Greco-Egyptian—a woman physician who wanted to learn all she had to teach. Merianis was not beautiful, but she had a proud, hawk-like nose, observant dark eyes, and boundless curiosity. She had sought Gretchen out, and was now very much a devoted apprentice.

And Diana had found her musician, a gift from Lollia. Diana quizzed the young woman about her true willingness to leave Alexandria, but got nothing but humble acquiescence from Berenike. She was a splendid harpist, a mistress of both lyre and kithara, and a notable flute-player as well. She had, it seemed, begun her career as a flute-girl, and had considered herself risen in the world by her harp skills. Another gift was delivered with her: a large andmagnificently inlaid coffer. Diana had been taken aback at the sight: it had looked like an Egyptian coffin—and perhaps it had been, originally. Now it contained a collection of musical instruments, and a few musical scrolls.

Lollia had liked Diana, and had liked sharing cups of cocoa with her as well. Diana reciprocated her splendid gifts with an Atlantean style dress in rayon, dyed a rich peach, and draped with a lace overdress of ecru. Polly and Sally were a little scornful of machine-made lace, but the Romans were staggered by the idea of lace in dress-lengths. Lollia was awestruck, and only feared that the Empress herself might be jealous.

Most profoundly startling was an application by a rising young Alexandrian scholar. When they heard the name, there had been a gasp of recognition, and Ferguson had looked wide-eyed at Tavington; and Tavington at Diana; and Diana at Alan; and Alan at Bordon; and Bordon at Herb Schultz, who grinned delightedly, and cried, "Holy cats!"

So Claudius Ptolemy, who already had been on his way to fame as an astronomer and geographer, took ship with the Atlanteans. He was eager to learn from the strangers—eager to expand the boundaries of the map of the world he was constructing—eager to coopt any new data they might have on celestial motions. Lesley Urquhart, an expert navigator and no mean astronomer herself, welcomed Ptolemy aboard the _Enterprise_, where he would, like the rest, discover strange new worlds.

-----

Ferguson's radio reports for next weeks continued positive: things were going well, except in Antioch, where a number of the party had come down with dysentery from the local food. They were rushed home for treatment, and replacements sent for the two Marines who had fallen ill. Otherwise it was a continual triumph: they had attended the chariot races in Antioch in the fabulous racecourse that seated fifty thousand. Traveling up the coast, they stopped at all the remaining Wonders of the World.

At Ephesus, Tavington joined the expedition for a day in order to visit the famed Temple of Diana, the largest temple in the world.

"It's not quite what I was expecting," he admitted to Bordon.

"Nor I, Colonel. At least, not quite so many breasts."

The immense statue was not the typical Greek beauty. Instead, this rather Oriental creation was a fertility goddess: well-worthy of the application "Lady of the Beasts." Crowned and with row upon row of dugs, the goddess was surrounded by a tangle of wild creatures. The temple was crowded and smelly; the great altar still bloody with the day's sacrifice.

Tavington swept the vast precinct with a troubled eye. This sight had attracted a lot of interest from his Atlanteans: the Reverend Mr. Boulton (complete with clerical collar) and his family were visiting, intrigued with a site mentioned by Paul. Tavington liked Boulton, whose own classical education made him a valuable asset; but he did not want the complication of religious controversy, and had not encouraged his people to get in contact with the local Christians. The current emperor, Antoninus Pius, was a benevolent ruler, and shown toleration towards the Christians, as he did toward all faiths; but the religion was not in good odor in the Roman Empire as the present time. Christians tended to come from the lower classes, and were suspected, as many small cults throughout history had been, of murdering children in their blood rituals.

Closer to the statue, he could see Dion, Ptolemy, and Serapion in a group of other old-timers: talking and gesticulating with great spirit. To his relief, McKenzie and Alan Swinburne were in the same group, and would restrain Dion from revealing secrets of Atlantis. The young freedman was enjoying himself so much that Tavington knew he would hate to send him home: but he had been warned about the consequences of indiscretion. When so warned, the young man would protest his loyalty and acquiescence, eager to please; but he would grow so excited about the wonders of Atlantis that he sometimes lost all prudence. Tavington had himself witnessed McKenzie having to physically silence Dion when the fellow started in about electric lighting. If he mentioned flying machines, he would find his wonderful Grand Tour cut short.

Tavington returned to the ship that afternoon and gated back to New Atlantis, after telling Ferguson that he would visit again at Athens. There was a minor crisis before he could make his departure: one of his Atlanteans tourists—Boulton's daughter-in-law, in fact, wandered away, was robbed, and had lost her emergency beacon. She was given another and checked out by Gretchen and Merianis for possible injuries. The Boultons wanted to remain with the ship at least until they had had a chance to see Athens: and Tavington gave Rachel Boulton a brief lecture on the importance of staying close to her party in the future. At least they would be living in their cabin on the ship, not trying to acclimate to life in Ephesus itself: so Tavington could go home without further worry.

On his return, Tavington notified Markham and the engineers on retrieval duty about the loss of the beacon. It had been in the young woman's purse and might very well attract notice. The beacons were small devices: smaller than communicators, and the smooth metal was featureless save for the glowing red button under its protective cap.

"She shouldn't carry it in her purse, sir," Markham responded angrily, hearing Tavington's news. "She knows she shouldn't. It should be in a pocket--or better yet, right on the person."

"Yes. Obviously I agree with you, Lieutenant, and all persons going ashore from the _Enterprise_ will henceforth be checked for compliance. Nonetheless, it has happened, and you should be prepared for a visit at any time. Get rid of any intruders. We certainly don't want a pickpocket on Atlantis."

The dragoon who knocked on Tavington's door three hours later was the first indication given that the beacon had been used. Locke reported, with a hint of a grin, "Poor bugger didn't know what hit him, sir. The lieutenant shot him with a tranquilizer gun and he fell to the floor. Then we got the beacon off him, and sent him right back through the Ephesus gate. The lieutenant went with him and carried him a little ways away, so the fellow wouldn't be hanging about the gate area. Then he came back. No one saw him, and the lieutenant sends his compliments, and adds that 'All's well that ends well.'"

Tavington snorted. "I certainly hope so."

-----

The expedition was important, but not the only matter of business for Tavington to attend to. There were some disputes that required his attention. And then Michael was back in town, and the two of them shared a bottle of the new vintage, while Michael showed Tavington his latest finds, among which were a nugget of gold the size of his (large) fist, and a wonderfully complete fossil skeleton of Stegosaurus, as well as two of the little meat-eater, Ornitholestes.

When he had more time, Michael was planning to have the older schoolchildren assist him and Elyssa in mounting the specimens. It would be educational for them, and fun, as well. Tavington planned to hang about and help. There was something so delightful about filling their little museum. Many of Sam Walford's treasures had gone into it: paintings and baubles; statues and Chinese jade. Marianne was the chief curator, but Michael had charge of the geology area, and was contributing treasures at a prodigious rate.

Some of their Roman acquisitions were alreadydisplayed there: an encaustic portrait of Patrick Ferguson,painted during the stay at Gades, and a wonderful mosaic in the floor of the main hall. The portrait always made Tavington laugh: the artist had not quite known what to make of the exotic Atlantean, and Ferguson's expression in the painting was positively hilarious.

And of course, there was his family. The twins were eager for his attention, Emily wanted to tell him about her summer internship and her aspirations, and the new baby was—quite adorable for a _baby._ Diana was continuing to recover, and was entertained by her new musical instruments and musician.

Berenike had moved into Clytie's old room, and was teaching Diana the basics of the lyre and kithara. In the splendid chest of instruments had been a floor harp of Egyptian design. At the top of the instrument was the head of a lion in gold, adorned with the rich blue of lapis lazuli and the orange-red of carnelian. It was painted with lotuses and papyrus stalks, and inscribed with hieroglyphs. Berenike did not know what they said, but Diana did, and smiled mysteriously on seeing them. Tavington particularly enjoyed hearing it, deep-toned and equivocal. It suited their rooms—it suited the Town Hall. He had liked harp music long ago in the 18th century, and now enjoyed hearing it again, even in this unfamiliar style.

The soft, mellow tones echoed through the high-ceilinged rooms of the Town Hall, drifting down from upstairs, filling every corner of the offices and splendid reception rooms below. They wafted across the terrace on the upper floor to the door of Bordon's quarters, and filled the air like perfume. Clytie would leave the door open, and come out, leaning back against the wall, eyes shut in rapture. She was missing Bordon badly, and beginning to suffer the ill-affects of pregnancy. Discomfort made her cling to Diana, who understood her and bore the lack of privacy uncomplainingly.

It was quite good of his wife, for it seemed every woman on Atlantis with complaints beat a path to their door, pouring their grievances into Diana's compassionate ears. Women of the 21st century did not always see eye to eye with men of 18th; and romantic and marital quarrels could turn stormy.

"He doesn't understand me!" wailed one young woman, overworked and overwrought. "He never lifts a finger around the house! He expects to be waited on! He won't change the baby!"

Tavington could hear the girl's complaints all the way downstairs in his office, and quietly got up and shut the door, vowing to stay hard at work until Diana's visitor took the proffered sympathy and counsel and was on her way. Luckily, his men were in too much awe of him to try to confide similarly in him; though he knew that they sometimes sought out Bordon. Not Markham, though: Tavington had once overheard him responding to such a complaint by telling the soldier, "to get off his dead, lazy, military ass and pull his own weight at home!" Hearing that, Tavington gave thanks to Providence that Carolyn Kelly had not left Markham for an "18." It would have made his attitude ten times worse.

At length, hearing light footsteps coming down the stairs and then heading out the front door of the Town Hall, Tavington emerged from his office, and paused tolet Lisa and Trinity know he was leaving. At least these two women in his life were happily settled: Lisa with her "ex-ex" and their two adopted children (admirably disciplined children, too, he reflected approvingly); and Trinity with the easy-going Locke, who had taken the path of least resistance and learned to cook and clean, refusing to be embarrassed about it. Tavington sighed. If only all the citizens of Atlantis could be so agreeably adaptable.

He mounted the stairs, two at a time, feeling rather eager to spend some time with the family. To his disappointment, Diana and the children were gone. _She must have left with her visitor._

Like any other Atlantean, Diana had work to do: during most of the year she spent quite a bit of time at the school, teaching the older pupils literature and history and "fine arts." She gave lessons on the pianoforte to some of the children, and was planning some theatrical production for next year, too. The little Tavingtons were cared for by a good-hearted rota of friends when their mother needed time for her work. Besides her teaching, she was still engaged in historical research, analyzing the information gathered on the last trip and the current one, trying to hammer out strategies for altering the future for the better.

_Let's see: it's Wednesday, so Emily is at the Library, shelving books and reading stories to small children; the twins are probably at the Laboratory clothing workroom with Polly and Sally, playing with the little Fergusons while the women perpetrate new clothing innovations._

Atlantis was processing its own cotton now and would soon have enough wool to work with as well, and an engineer had devised a power spinner and a power loom—small, but efficient. Their store of clothing from the 21st century would not last forever: the ladies of the "costume shop" seemed to get tremendous pleasure from designing and creating clothes—shirts, breeches, pretty dresses, uniform jackets. The chemical dyes available inspired them to wild and flamboyant uses of color. Hats were a different issue: it was hard to persuade 21's to wear headgear unless they needed it for protection from the sun. Even his soldiers were getting out of the habit, except when they were on the occasional parade.

_Perhaps she took Jason to her own office._ Diana still had a little cubbyhole in the Laboratory: a place all to herself where she could think in quiet. _Or somewhat quietly, if the baby is with her. _

Restlessly, he moved around their sitting room, pausing at her pianoforte. He sat down, idly pecking out a tune. There was a movement to his right; from the corner of his eye he saw Berenike's pale face peering out of her room. She saw him and started to draw back, but then realized that he had noticed her, and she stood silently by, while he finished searching out the notes of "Shenandoah." _A pretty song. I had never heard it, until Diana's friend Karen taught it to her choir for the end-of-school concert. _

The song ended. "Good day to you, Berenike," Tavington said politely. "Do you know where my wife has gone?"

"She has gone to the glass house, Lord," was the girl's deferential reply. "Her friend, the Lady Jennifer, wished to speak with her."

"Call me 'Colonel,'" Tavington corrected her gently, it seemed for the thousandth time.

"Colonel," she repeated dutifully. "I beg pardon, Lor—Colonel."

Tavington rolled his eyes. It would be so much easier just to treat the girl like any servant he would have had at home in his youth, but Diana disliked the idea, feeling that it would be a slippery slope from there to slavery. "I am certain," he said patiently, "that she did not order you to remain in your room."

"No, --Colonel. The Lady Diana gave me leave to do as I pleased until the evening meal. I was spending some time at my music. My room is very comfortable. I did not mean to disturb you. I thought that the Lady had returned."

She remained standing quietly, almost passively. Tavington realized that she was waiting for him to give her a command. _Naturally, _he realized,_ she has been a slave all her life. Who knows how she has been treated? _

"Well, Berenike, you still have some time. You could go for a walk—" she remained standing obediently. _Too pale,_ he decided. _She needs air_. "Yes, that would do well."

"The Colonel wishes me to go for a walk?" she asked timidly.

"Yes," he replied, trying not to be rudely sarcastic. "Yes, The Colonel _does _wish you to go for a walk. Go down to the garden and look at the flowers, and then walk all the way around the Square. You need to get some exercise. Have a pleasant walk, and be back for dinner."

She looked out the window, and then paused, her eyes returning to the floor in front of him.

"Go now."

Quickly, she darted out of sight. Tavington rolled his eyes again. He returned his attention to the keyboard, wandering slowly through "The Water is Wide."

Emily arrived first, in her usual air of bustle, telling Tavington about the Library, and how the other assistant did not appear to know the alphabet and constantly shelved everything "bass-ackwards."

_"Please,"_ he remonstrated.

"Sorry, but she is so _stupid_. I can't imagine why Mrs. Horn chose her."

She went on at length about Nadia's shortcomings. Tavington closed his ears. He had heard it all before. Emily simply did not like Nadia Nagy, and the feeling was evidently mutual. Well, she would have to deal with it. They would be living on the same island for the rest of their lives.

His twins came home next: heard first, with their squeals of glee echoing up the stairs. They ran to Tavington and climbed on him with affectionate carelessness. Berenike was a few paces behind them, slipping along the walls, trying not to be seen.

Diana, lugging Jason, arrived last, giving Tavington a distracted kiss. "We need to talk later," she told him briefly, before becoming involved with the mechanics of getting the children ready for dinner. Downstairs in the dining room, the inhabitants of the Town Hall would be gathering for their communal evening meal. They had started with one large table, but as families had grown, the table had grown as well, now forming a U shape. It hardly mattered: the room was huge and would hold many more diners—and did, often enough.

Clytie entered through the terrace door, disconsolate as usual, but unfailingly good about helping with the mob of children. Tavington still found it odd to share a dinner table with infants in high chairs and little children in booster seats, but with the lack of real servants, it was the way things were.

It was not until late that night, when the children were in bed, and he and Diana were moving in that direction themselves, that he remembered to ask her what she wanted to talk about.

"Oh!" she recollected with an odd laugh. She took a deep breath, and seemed at a loss. "Another time. I'm really too tired now to get into it." She slipped out of her dress, and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her ankles.

Tavington sat beside her, stooped to deftly gather up his wife's charming feet, and deposited them in his lap. She laughed again, and relaxed. Diana loved having her feet massaged, and it had been one of the best ways to comfort her during her pregnancies. He lifted her right foot first, squeezing firmly, and rubbing his thumb into the arch.

Diana groaned with pleasure, and said, "You are absolutely the world's best husband."

He moved up the ankle, finding all the sore places. Diana relaxed further, sprawled sideways on the bed, and Tavington took advantage of her vulnerable state to ask again, "What did you want to talk about?"

"I don't want to talk. I want you to rub my feet forever."

Jason stirred in his cradle, and mewed. Diana rolled partly over to see if this was serious. It was not, and she rolled back, smiling blissfully.

Tavington pointed out, "My dear, I think we had better talk now, while the children are out of the way for the moment. Who knows how long that will last? Do you imagine we will have more time tomorrow morning?"

She sighed. "You're right, of course. You may find what I'm going to say—I don't know." She took another breath, and blurted out, "Jennifer would really like to have a baby."

Tavington was so baffled that he momentarily stopped rubbing. Diana poked him with a protesting toe, and he resumed. "And that's _it_? _Jennifer_ wants to have a child?"

"Yes, very much. She's been very depressed, and last week she dropped by my office and saw Jason and just went to pieces. She's very unhappy."

"Well," he remarked, puzzled, "I still don't see why that's our concern. If she wants a child, she will have to make some sort of effort to find a husband. There are still some unattached men."

He considered the prospects and frowned. Jennifer was so terribly reserved.

Diana's free foot stroked the top of his thigh. "Will, she's not particularly interested in finding a mate. She wants a _child." _

Tavington reminded himself of the very different customs among his wife's people. Besides, they were creating their own society, and could certainly tolerate fatherless children, especially when the mother was educated, intelligent, and prominent in her own right. The more children, the better, in fact.

"I still don't see the problem," he observed, his massage moving higher up the sleek, feminine leg. "Surely there is some friend who could oblige her."

"_Yes_, Will," his wife, with long-suffering patience, agreed. "And she broke down and confided to me which friend she would like do the obliging." She gave him a level look.

Tavington froze. _"Good God."_

-----

Athens was a sleepy town: a place where things used to happen long ago. Herb thought it was a lot like a number of university towns he had visited, only, of course, with some of the world's greatest art and architecture. It was full of students from all over the Roman world, here to soak up some knowledge by conversation, by sight-seeing, or by more formal study at the Academy or the other famous schools of philosophy.

Full of tourists, too—and not only the Atlanteans. They met Pausanias of Magnesia, hard at work on his great travelogue of the classical sights of Greece. Their host introduced them at dinner, and they found the conversation interesting; but Pausanias, though interested in the Atlanteans, would never leave Greece—the only place he truly cared about.

Tavington, needing a brief diversion from his–_romantic?_--imbroglio, returned to the _Enterprise_ for a peep at the place, and very much enjoyed going with the rest of their group on a walking tour all the way from the Acropolis down the Sacred Way toward Eleusis. He could spare only two days, and departed regretfully, leaving Ferguson once again in command.

Amidst the good talk, the sightseeing, the theater, the endless rounds of cultivated parties, it was easy to imagine themselves in another world: one not so different from their own life on New Atlantis. It was a great surprise, then, four days after their arrival, when a messenger from the local Roman praetor summoned Ferguson to his office. Accompanied by Bordon he was there within the hour.

Waiting for them was a deputation, led by a young military tribune, one Quintus Memmius. Ferguson dealt with the introductions with unruffled calm, though inwardly his mind was racing.

Memmius, charming enough despite a certain arrogance, saluted them cordially. "I bring you a greeting from Rome," he told them briskly. "The Emperor, hearing of the Atlanti, invites you, Verguso, and your retinue to enter the city and present yourself before him. He would hear of Atlantis from the lips of the Atlanti themselves. I and my men shall escort you."

_Invite,_ indeed. Antoninus Pius was a polite man, but Ferguson knew it was a command all the same. He caught Bordon's eye, and smiled graciously, "The _Enterprise_ can be ready to make sail whenever you like. When do you wish to depart, Quintus Memmius?"

"At daybreak, Verguso. It would not do to keep the Emperor waiting."

Bordon raised his brows. Ferguson nodded his agreement with the Roman. "No, indeed."

-----

**Note**: Canopic Way was the main east-west drag in ancient Alexandria. Argeus was the big north-south street. The Tomb of Alexander was at the intersection.

If you have never read _The Innocents Abroad_, Mark Twain hysterically funny travelogue of Europe and the Middle East, you should. "Is—is—he _dead_?" was one of Twain's favorite ways to confuse tour guides, whether viewing mummies or sculptures.

The University of Chicago Epigraphic Project, whose goal is to write down every bit of writing on all the ancient Egyptian monuments. began decades ago and is nowhere near done. I can imagine them still hard at it decades hence.

Yes, _that_ Ptolemy.

Though the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were one of the Ancient Wonders, Babylon was a ghost town by the time of this story, and the gardens no longer in existence. The Atlanteans already knew that the Colossus of Rhodes had collapsed in the third century B.C.

Pausanias' _Guide to Greece_ is still in existence, and is an exhaustive travel guide that gives great insight into the ancient myths.

**Next: The Imperial City.** The _Enterprise_ and its crew arrive at the Roman capital, meet some notable Romans, and discover that for some, hospitality may be a blind for a hostile agenda.


	22. Tavington's Atlantis, part 5

Disclaimer: Don't own the rights to _The Patriot,_ Tavington, or Bordon. Not making money off this. Really.

_The Enterprise and its crew arrive at the Roman capital, meet some notable Romans, and discover that for some, hospitality may be a blind for a hostile agenda.._

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 5 **

**The Imperial City: July, 150 A.D. **

Matching their speed to that of their escort, the _Enterprise_ slowly made its way across the Adriatic, and then through the Straits of Messina. Their progress was majestic: crowds were seen gathering along the coast of Italy to watch their passage. Herb mourned their lost chance to see southern Italy.

Ferguson, in the meantime, contacted Tavington by radio and told him what had transpired.

"It was certain to happen, soon or later," Tavington said calmly. "It is to be a formal audience, apparently. Once you reach the port of Ostia, you must inquire as to the proper protocol. Leave a strong force on the _Enterprise_, and I think—" he paused, and then said more decidedly, "—I think it would be wise to gate home all the tourists until we are more certain of our reception."

"Aye. And such a move will remove some distractions. I'll have enough to fret over without worrying about a panic amongst the civilians."

They anchored briefly in Neapolis to allow the trireme to take on water. The distant mass of Vesuvius dominated the harbor. A gate was opened in the wardroom, and the tourists hustled back home, some protesting their willingness to stay and do what they could to help. Safe Atlantean well water was gated back, along with fresh provisions. There was no time for sight-seeing, and they were soon underway.

Their old-timer passengers had all noticed, by this time, the strange comings and goings of the exotic Atlanteans. Since Alexandria, Serapion, who was no fool and inclined to curiosity anyway, had noticed that his new friend, the Atlantean officer Oilion, seemed to disappear at times, only to reappear at points of interest. He was too practiced a courtier to ask outright questions, and simply set himself to observe.

Claudius Ptolemy, engrossed with the _Enterprise's_ marvelous star charts, was ever more aware that these were people with unheard-of knowledge. The charts themselves, the books he saw—the new concept of _printing_—the quality of the paper, and the prodigal use of it by his new acquaintances, led him to conclusions that were extraordinary, but logically inescapable. Sometimes it was necessary to begin with first principles. He wanted to see the Atlantean library. He wanted to see a _printing press_. Despite all the dangers and inconveniences of sea travel, he was determined to voyage all the way to Atlantis—or perhaps—_disappear_ to it as it seemed that others did.

Merianis knew even more. Assisting Gretchen and learning from her, she had witnessed Gretchen gating out the sick during the Antioch stay, and gating back in medicines and personnel. A nurse—which she understood to mean a trained physician's assistant—named Jessica, arrived and was introduced to Merianis, who took a deep breath, and then accepted it as yet another wonder of these wonderful people. It was a great marvel indeed. The Atlanteans had power over light. They could make it come and go at will in their cabins; and then there was the blue light, the divine force that transported people and things. The Atlanteans took these powers for granted, but Merianis could see that they realized how amazing it was to her. Gretchen trusted her with this knowledge, and Merianis would prove faithful to her trust.

She had learned more in the past few weeks than she had learned in years of study with her uncle. The importance of clean water---and how to determine what clean water was, and how to boil it to make it safe. The importance of careful sanitation, the use of _alcohol_ in cleaning wounds. Gretchen had found a picture of a still and obligingly showed it to her, explaining the process of distillation and the amazing uses that such a process could be put to. It was glorious. Merianis already knew things that would make her the best physician in Alexandria—the best physician in Egypt.

And then, there was the attitude of the Atlanteans. No one condescended to her because she was a woman. None of the Atlanteans refused to allow Gretchen to treat them, but instead showed her confidence and respect. It was a new world, and one that Merianis found she liked very much.

It was also strange, but wonderful, that Gretchen did not ask for money as the price of her studies. Merianis was embarrassed to ask, but wondered if she was considered a servant, or legally bound to serve her teacher for a set period of years. If only her situation would be made plain to her. She was glad to serve, and would like very much to learn more among the Atlanteans themselves; but at the end of her studies, it would be a fine thing to return to Alexandria. She could train students of her own: a group of excellent physicians who could do wonders for the health of her beloved city. Gretchen's only dictum to her so far was that medical knowledge should be _shared_: it should not be a secret kept by greedy practitioners, doling out their knowledge only for the benefit of the rich.

She understood now why the Atlanteans drank their strange hot drinks, like _tea_. Gretchen liked tea, and served it to Merianis, with a fragrant squeeze of precious lemon, and sweetened with even more precious _saccharum. _Merianis knew now that this was a very healthy drink: boiling the water destroyed the tiny animals that brought sickness, the odd, oddly-beautiful ones Gretchen had shown her in the _microscope_. The caffeine and sugar gave _energy._ The lemon was good because it contained an important _vitamin_ that prevented the foul disease of scurvy. She was learning all about vitamins now. They were substances in food and drink that gave strength and prevented disease. She believed Gretchen, because what she told her _worked._ The Pythagoreans had known long ago that some foods were healthier than others. Gretchen could explain _why. _In return, she was telling Gretchen everything she knew about healing herbs: how to find them, and how to prepare them.

She was learning many words in English. There were no Greek words for some of the things Gretchen needed to tell her. It was a very difficult language, but she was determined to learn it. Gretchen had books about medicine—not books that she had experience with—not thin scrolls, but huge thick codices (to use the Roman word) full of words and pictures. Once could learn vast wisdom from such books---but only if one learned to read English. Jessica had brought a thin book for Merianis, with shining paper covers—and was going over the pictures with her. Jessica's Greek was not good, and Merianis' English was worse, but between them, and with Gretchen's help, Merianis was learning about "First Aid." Some of the procedures she had known already, or known about a little, or learned differently. It was a good way to approach the medical theory of Atlantis.

Claudius Ptolemy, the haughty philosopher, wanted to learn English as well, in order to read the books that the esteemed captain possessed relating to astronomy and geography. One of the Atlantean philosophers, named Alan, was teaching him, and on Gretchen's request he agreed to teach Merianis as well. Ptolemy ignored her presence, for she was a woman physician, and not fully conversant with medical philosophy. It was true. Her uncle had not given her Hippocrates to read. Instead, she had, in his words, "learned as a dog learns," and had nonetheless become a valued assistant; and then, after his death, a woman with a skill that could earn her bread. But the Atlanteans did not care that she was a woman, not even the long-nosed Alan, who might have been expected to. The great ship traveled through smooth seas with the creak of ropes and sails, and the gentle rocking of the waves. It was a journey of discovery for Merianis, as she sat in a cabin at the stern at a plain table, while the scholar taught them the elements of English.

-----

"Don't stare at her. You're going to make her embarrassed."

Tavington muttered, "Fair is fair. I'm exceedingly embarrassed myself."

It was nearly time for the Executive Committee to meet, and Tavington dreaded conversation with Jennifer. _I suppose I ought to be flattered that a woman wants me to father her child. _Flattered, but confused as well. Diana was not the least bit jealous, which rather piqued him.

She explained again, "Jennifer is not trying to gain you as a lover. She just wants you to help her have a child. There's nothing to it, for you."

"My dear," Tavington began, trying to rein in his temper. "Having a child with a woman is hardly '_nothing_.' What would be the child's status? Would my paternity be known? Would I be expected to be a father to it? The child itself might be harmed, or made unhappy. These are serious considerations. And I might also point out that making myself agreeable to Jennifer is hardly _'nothing._' She is a good friend, but so timid that it might be difficult to render my services without either causing her hurt or ruining our friendship—or both."

"But, Will, darling," his wife expostulated, "no one's asking you to do anything of the sort. Of course it would be impossible: Jennifer is just too bashful to manage normal sex with anyone—even a man she admires from afar, like you. She's discussed this with Carolyn, and it will all be done by artificial insemination."

"I beg your pardon?"

Diana explained, concisely. Tavington felt his temper flare.

"You want me to do _what?" _

"But darling, given the circumstances, it's really the best way. It keeps your role strictly to that of a friend conferring a favor—without all the emotional and physical stress of doing something that I don't think Jennifer's up to doing with anybody. It's a simple procedure that can be performed in Carolyn's office—you don't even have to be there at the same time. It reduces the embarrassment factor to a minimum."

He growled, unconvinced, "Not for me."

"Oh, don't be difficult." She gave Tavington a naughty smile. "And don't pretend you don't have plenty to spare of what Jennifer needs."

Tavington snorted. _Unbelievable. _Involuntarily, he smiled.

His wife continued, brisk and business-like. "Now as to the child—that _is_ a serious issue, and one that needs to be resolved. Of course no one wants the little one to be made unhappy. That's why it's important to be open and honest about the whole situation. The child should certainly know that you are the father, and you should spend some time with him—or her. And our own children should understand that you were helping our friend Jennifer, who was so sad about not having a baby. They don't have to know all the gory details, but I believe more harm than good would come from treating the issue as a guilty secret. There's nothing shameful about it: Jennifer wants a child, and she would be a very loving mother."

"Diana, I must still think the matter over," he protested. More committee members were arriving, and he did not wish to be overheard.

"Fine. Just think _clearly_."

-----

"They have arrived in Ostia, Lord."

"Very well. They will want to rest and prepare themselves, of course, but escort them into the city the day after tomorrow. Encourage as many of the embassy as possible to appear at the audience—in the late afternoon, I think."

He turned to his secretary. "Have I any other commitments?"

"Of course, Lord. You are to receive the Salian college earlier in the day, and then there is—"

"No matter." The Emperor, Antoninus called Pius, for his reverence for Roman custom, mildly interrupted. "Please rearrange my appointments. I wish to see these new people. And it would please the Empress, as well. See to it."

The grizzled aide departed with a bow, pondering the complex demands on the Emperor's time. Certainly, the Father of his Country deserved an occasional novel amusement.

"Honored Father," the bearded young man on the other side of the desk remarked, "I have rarely seen you so inclined to indulge a fancy." Laughing, he admitted, "And I too, am most curious to see these strangers. Atlantis! Can it be possible? Lucius, of course, is quite wild to taste theobroma."

The Emperor was silent a moment. Not a chatty man in any case, he had spent considerable time in reflection, considering what these Atlanti might mean to his world. Antoninus had read the communications from the Iberian governor with more excitement than he generally allowed himself. He was a quiet and dignified man, devoted to the Empire, his subjects, his family, and the ancient customs of Rome. He was highly educated, but did not consider himself a philosopher, only a gentleman and a servant of Roman people. Let dear Marcus engage in speculation and metaphysics: Antoninus was already fully occupied with what was probably the hardest job in the world. An empire to rule; a law code to amend; borders to protect. He had also a family of daughters to raise (the eldest was married to Marcus), and his adoptive sons to train to succeed him. His wife Faustina had numerous religious functions to perform, and her charitable works, above all for orphan girls, to oversee. At last, he replied, slowly, as was his custom.

"Of course, I have heard of Atlantis. What literate man has not? The descriptions of the strange clothing, the unique trade goods, the outlandish customs, the equality of the sexes—all of it seems more like a fictional society created for a philosopher's treatise on The Good Life. Faustina—well, both of our Faustinas--are quite curious to see the women—the captain of the Iron Ship, the female philosophers. These people have given me a great deal to think about. It is reported that they practice universal childhood education at state expense."

Antoninus shook his head. "It must be prodigiously expensive. Theories are all very well, but a responsible administrator cannot squeeze his subjects' lifeblood with taxation to support grand schemes. For that matter, what _is_ their tax rate? Apparently, they do not practice slavery. Very well: how do they grow crops, build roads, clean their streets? However minutely he now analyzes the capabilities, the riches, the motives—even the location of the Atlanti--Vinicius' first reports were full of _theobroma_ and moonshine—they were not the practical, informative, and detailed intelligence that would help me understand this new power on our doorstep. And understand it I must."

Marcus Aurelius, a young man of twenty-nine, already an experienced general and ruler-in-training, nodded. "Forgive me. I know that you do nothing without a purpose, and that receiving this embassy immediately was not simply a whim. We indeed have much to learn from this polity: they sail against the wind in an iron ship, to give the most obvious example. The kind of engineering implicit in such a vessel beggars the imagination and make everything in our navy look like a child's toy raft. The universally high quality of their clothing—the reports of new fabrics, of improved dyes, of extraordinary technical skill in general speaks of a level of understanding about the nature of matter that transcends ours."

"Please do not wander into the metaphysical, dear boy," his adoptive father reproved.

"Indeed I do not wander. The issue is central to the existence of these people. Their mastery of the material world makes possible a different way of life. You speak of slaves, for example. The Atlanteans appear to need no slaves to row their ship, because of its innovative sails. The crew for such a large ship is tiny. Therefore, while they may speak disapprovingly of slavery, they speak from lack of necessity, not perhaps from true philosophic conviction. Perhaps they have ways of cleaning streets and growing crops that do not require great numbers of human beings." He rose from the simple chair of polished wood. "I agree with you that Vinicius is distracted by luxury goods like this theobroma and the strong wine and 'liquid thunderbolts.' More to the point are the marvels that permitted them to sail here." Considering the issue further, he added, "And they must be marvelous navigators, if they live on an island in the Outer Ocean that has never been previously recorded." He saw his adoptive father's expression, and pointed out, "I speak of practical reports. Plato's descriptions, I believe everyone agrees, are not those of an existing island, but of a philosophical construct, created to make a rhetorical point."

"Your point about their ship is well taken. I have sent a commission of naval engineers to examine the Atlantean ship, to the extent our guests permit it." The Emperor grimaced faintly, "Indeed, I could simply order it boarded, but that is pointlessly crude and uncivilized. It would foolish to make enemies of these strangers at our first meeting. They might have much to offer the Empire."

"Vinicius was quite puzzled by their disapproval of gladiatorial combats." Marcus Aurelius said. "If they disapprove of the wanton bloodshed of such entertainments, that might simply be a sign of good taste. My own is often offended by the crassness of popular culture."

He regarded the broad, green marble desk. On it, aside from the familiar litter of documents and seals, was the neatly laid-out contents of the parcel that had been sent on a swift trireme by the governor of Asia. The Atlanti had visited Ephesus, had been made welcome, and had spent quite of bit of time at the Temple of Diana and at the Library there. According to the governor, some days after the departure of the Atlanti, a man had come to him, claiming to have found some possessions belonging to one of their women.

The governor, no fool, had grasped immediately that the man was a thief. Under questioning, the thief had made some extraordinary claims. A smooth metal box with no clasp, part of which glowed with a red light. This portion of the story had arrested everyone's attention, and had caused a discreet but intense flurry of research and speculation. The thief had subsequently described a different, blue light, a strange room, and awakening in an alley of Ephesus. He had been frightened, and had brought the rest of the articles to the attention of the authorities.

Whatever had actually happened to the man, these objects could not have come from anywhere in the Empire. Certainly they were the property of a woman: in a leather purse there was a comb, a mirror, a cloth for cleaning the face, some coins, a little copy of the image of Diana of the Ephesians, no doubt bought as a souvenir trinket, a key, a bound book of paper for writing notes, and a writing instrument. Such an inventory sounded ordinary enough, even trite. When the items were examined in detail, however, their alien nature became manifest.

The comb was strong and flexible, an intense and beautiful violet color all the way through, and of no substance known to man. The mirror was glass, and gave an image that was perfect beyond compare. The little cloth was of delicate fabric, and edged as it was with the famed _reticulata_ of the Atlanti, was worth a small fortune in itself.

Most of the coins were evidently Atlanti, for the word "ATLANTIS" could be read upon them: but they were stamped with incomparable uniformity. They had attracted great attention. The dolphin on their equivalent of a copper sestertius was appropriate for an island people, but the goddesses on the other coins seemed to reveal much about this culture: the goddess Aurora was on their silver—denarius?—which suggested that the religion of the Atlanti might be similar to their own. But why was the goddess of the dawn of special significance? This merited further study. On the gold piece, of estimable purity, was another goddess—or more properly an image of a goddess's statue. Some substance was flowing from the deity's hands. Could it be liquid gold, or wine, or water (if this was a manifestation of a sea goddess such as Amphitrite, or Dione, or even of Venus, as exemplified by her birth from the sea)? Very interesting. If so, perhaps the Atlanti claimed some kin from afar with the Romans themselves.

Setting aside the souvenir, the rest was of additional interest. The key was also finely made of brass, and both smaller and different in shape than any key Marcus Aurelius had ever seen. The lock that such a key fit must be equally unusual.

Most staggering was the little book of paper pages and the accompanying writing instrument. It had been used, for a number of pages had been written upon, in a tongue that no one could decipher, a strange script that connected the letters. This was curious, considering that the Atlanti used the same letters as the Romans themselves on their coins. The paper was of good quality and the pages bound with a spiral metal wire. Ingenious. From some scraps of paper, it appeared that it was designed to allow the owner to tear pages out.

They had attempted to analyze the writing instrument without destroying it, for it was a thing of beauty. Shaped like a stylus, it was a long cylinder of gold. One could click a little device that made the nib appear from the cylinder. Then a tiny metal ball rotated, carrying blue ink from another cylinder inside. The Atlanti must have some way of refilling this tool, for it was obviously too valuable to throw away after one use.

All of these items were kept inside a purse of red leather, lined with rare silk. The top folded neatly over the bottom and it was held together by a clasp that fit down into a base with a clicking sound. It had a strap made to rest over the shoulder, also of red leather. The woman who had owned these items (_did_ own, for they would of course be returned to her), must be quite wealthy. Idly, he picked up the purse and sniffed at the inside. There was a lingering perfume.

"I wonder," he remarked to the Emperor, "if this was the property of the Atlantean woman befriended by Lollia Merula in Alexandria."

Antoninus smiled slightly. "Yes. I am curious myself. The Empress was intrigued by Lollia's letter. She has always considered her a good friend and a sensible woman. Lollia was quite taken with the foreign lady. Diana—interesting name, under the circumstances. They had much in common, being interested in music and literature, and they spent enough time together in informal moments to talk as one woman will to another. Lollia considered her thoroughly civilized and quite acceptable as a friend: a cultivated woman, a virtuous wife, and a devoted mother. All very propitious, if there is to be intercourse between Rome and Atlantis. The Empress wishes the lady to be presented to her."

He added, "Perhaps Lollia liked her because this lady was not so different as to be incomprehensible. It could be that the woman captain of the _Enterprise_ is more typical of her sex. But she, too, was well-bred and well-spoken, in addition to her reported great beauty."

Aurelius agreed. "Manlius liked them, too. Now _his_ reports have been worth reading. It was well done to put a man of his on board the _Enterprise_. Another interesting name— to what "enterprise," what "undertaking" does it refer?"

"They cannot be so foolish not to understand that he is an agent of Rome," said Antoninus, very thoughtfully, "and yet they raised no objection. It would indicate to me that they have no fear of us at all. Understandable, if they are at a great distance in the Ocean. Our ships do not penetrate into that dangerous place—at least of their own free will. Perhaps they truly see us as no threat to them. What confidence! It troubles me not a little. For if they do not fear us, ought we then to fear them?"

"Not for any of the usual reasons, I believe," Aurelius replied. "They do not require slaves; they are already wealthy; and we have no reason to believe that they desire more land. Such are the usual reasons for war. What have they asked of us? Books of literature and philosophy, some metals and minerals, a few individuals to increase their understanding. Hardly anything that could pose a threat to our security—and yet---"

"And yet? Marcus, that 'yet' worries me."

"It worries me, as well. When I said that the Atlanti do not appear to pose a threat in any usual way, I did not misspeak myself. And yet—I am not so simple to imagine that threats may not appear in benign forms—even wearing the appearance of friendship. The Atlanti may indeed mean us no harm, but they could represent a challenge to our entire way of life."

"You mean their rejection of slavery."

"Yes, that: but also their power through philosophic understanding, which is a rebuke to power through military might. Their equality of the sexes, their education for all. If they can live in such a way, might not our own society question itself?"

Antoninus sighed. "I have never wished to preserve the Roman way of life like a fly in amber. Law codes change with the times, customs evolve and learning advances. Manlius writes that their woman physician treated a child successfully for marsh fever and saved a women's life in childbed, after the Egyptians had judged her case hopeless. The Atlanti offer us great gifts—things that I know will benefit the Empire. Better that I accept these gifts of clear value than reject them because they might be the source of strife in the future."

"So we shall receive the embassy with full honors."

"Oh, yes: most certainly."

-----

In the worlds they had known, the citizens of New Atlantis would have found themselves wrapped in politics, protocol, and red tape before being admitted to the presence of a head of state. Ferguson expected to have to cool his heels for at least a week before being granted an audience before the Emperor.

The Imperial Court of Antoninus Pius, however, was a model of efficiency. The Emperor, mild of manner and diligent in his duties, had been duly advised of the arrival of the Atlantean embassy. He and his council, and his two adopted sons and heirs, Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius, all expressed interest in seeing the remarkable people who bore the name of a ancient land enshrined in a philosophic classic.

There were some adjustments to be made, as they had realized from the time of their first trip to Gades. However much they themselves regarded wearing a sword as the mark of a gentleman, Roman citizens took a dim view of the outward show of weaponry, especially when worn by foreigners. It was comforting, however, that pistols and stun guns were not identifiable as weapons to their hosts.

Ferguson met briefly with a court functionary, then radioed Tavington immediately.

"They want Diana."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Lollia Merula penned a wee note to the Empress about the charming lady of the Atlanti. Now the Empress wants Diana to be presented to her."

Tavington thought quickly. "I dare say we must all come. She probably told the Empress about the children. Besides, I've been thinking for some time that I want to be present at this meeting."

Early the next morning, he emerged from the wardroom with Diana and the children. Serapion was on deck, and greeted him with a knowing smile.

"It is pleasant to see you once more, Oilion, after your long stay in that small space. It is odd—I have been there myself for many meals, and did not see you. One would not think the cupboards so commodious."

Tavington merely returned the smile and the greeting, with a polite inquiry after Serapion's health and experiences. Let the man think what he would. Plainly the Alexandrian surmised something of the situation, but could not possibly grasp its full implications.

Besides, Tavington had too much to do to concern himself with it: they were all very busy with organizing the presents for the Court. For the Emperor and Empress, and their daughters and adoptive sons, Tavington had thought it politic to sacrifice some of Sam Walford's huge collection of fine writing instruments. There were some fountain pens, of gold or silver (of platinum and aluminum even, which would be unknown to the Romans), inlaid with a variety of precious minerals. They would be useable by the Romans, and would be far superior to any writing tools they used at present.

There was velvet and lace, there was wine and chocolate. There were faceted jewels, which the Romans would never before have seen. There was a splendid round mirror, handsomely framed in gilt. There was a magnifying glass, with a silver handle. A porcelain chocolate set, with a green background and a design of tender violets. A decanter and accompanying wine glasses, of brilliant-cut glass.

More they would not contribute. No doubt they would have to give gifts again; but more importantly, they had decided not to give things that were irreplaceable or that would be incomprehensible to the Romans. Tavington and the Committee had discussed the gift of a small telescope, but decided that the Romans were not yet ready for such an item. Perhaps if they saw something of the sort being used, and expressed an interest…

And they were not giving them weapons. About that there was no debate. There were some fine ceremonial swords in the armory, but it did not seem a wise or well-omened gift at the current time. The gifts of peace could not be misconstrued as a fine blade could be.

And so they entered, in solemn procession, into a city that they had heard of since their earliest schooldays. The city, however, was not at all like those lessons of old. For one thing, it was by far the largest city that the Englishmen had ever seen. Diana and her cohorts of the 21st century had known larger cities, but Tavington had only glimpsed one of them, and Ferguson and Bordon had never had the opportunity.

It was crowded—more crowded than Tavington found comfortable. The mobs of onlookers were noisy: tumultuous, even. The stench was only to be expected, sophisticated sewage system or no. But it was also impressive: indeed, it was overwhelming. The size and grandeur of the buildings, some of which they had never heard, and the excitement of spotting monuments they knew of, made the journey from the outskirts to the Capitol a constant thrill. The walk up the great marble stairs, the bright sun beating down, the dazzling awareness that _they were in ancient Rome_ made them all fight to suppress ridiculous grins. Tavington inwardly admitted that this place made his own London of the 18th century seem provincial.

Their reception was cordial, but dignified. Tavington, standing behind and to the right of Ferguson, took it all in avidly. He recognized a young Marcus Aurelius at once, standing by the Emperors' side, from pictures of his statues. The Emperor, graying but robust, had a noble presence, as did his Empress, Faustina the Elder. A younger, quite pretty woman with a family resemblance, he deduced was the younger Faustina, the wife of Marcus Aurelius. Another, younger man with the Imperial party he took to be Lucius Verus, the other Caesar, and joint heir to the Empire.

Tavington considered the two young men._ An interesting situation. Antoninus Pius must truly intend them to rule jointly. I wonder how that actually would have played out, had Verus not died young._

The embassy was presented, and the Romans gazed upon the imperturbable Lesley Urquhart, in her blue and gold dress uniform, with pleasure and amazement. The gifts were given, and received with a stir of interest, and graceful thanks.

On their side, the Atlanteans were pleased. No silly fuss was being made (at least in their hearing) over Captain Urquhart's sex, nor were there untoward remarks about Gretchen. Indeed, the Emperor himself mentioned the gratitude of the citizens who had been treated by her during the journey of the Atlanti through the Middle Sea. A polite hope was expressed that the physician Gretis would share some of her wisdom during her stay. They were invited to a banquet to be held that night, and ultimately dismissed with every mark of favor.

After their arrival at the immense Flavian Palace, Diana was invited to an intimate audience with the Empress and her daughters. She prepared chocolate for them, which they drank from the pretty green cups. It was a most successful encounter.

The banquet was most pleasant as well: there was music, there were recitations, there was talk. The Emperor himself questioned Captain Urquhart about the dangers of the encircling Ocean, and she told him about some of the creatures she had seen, tactfully deflecting too pointed questions about the exact location of "New Atlantis."

Inevitably, there was discussion of the _Kritias_, in which Plato famously described Atlantis. Ferguson simply smiled and declared that the description was a fiction, and that New Atlantis had little in common with the philosopher's description.

"But what about the orichalcum?" one guest objected, fully into his cups.

Tavington and Ferguson gave each other quick, curious looks. _Ah_, thought Tavington, _now it comes._ _There is some real curiosity about the sources of our perceived wealth. _He decided to reply openly to such a question.

"There is no such thing as orichalcum," he said firmly. "The metal is a myth."

"Really?" Marcus Aurelius, at his right, asked in his turn. "What a pity. It sounds so beautiful."

In his pleasant, resonant voice he quoted:

_ "…they dug out of the earth whatever was to be found there--and that which is now only a name, and was then something more than a name: orichalcum---was dug out of the earth in many parts of the island, being more precious in those days than anything except gold… Some of their buildings were simple, but in others they put together different stones, varying the colour to please the eye, and to be a natural source of delight. The entire circuit of the wall, which was round the outermost zone, they covered with a coating of brass, and the circuit of the next wall they coated with tin, and the third, which encompassed the citadel, flashed with the red light of orichalcum…" _

He smiled briefly. "A red light. To me, it has always sounded mysterious and splendid."

At that moment, Tavington would have bet any amount of money that Marcus Aurelius had some knowledge of their lost beacon, with its glowing red panic button. His eyes met the Roman's, and they held each other's gaze, as they measured one another. He broke the contact and looked quickly about the room. The Emperor's expression held nothing but benevolent interest. _He should have been a card player,_ Tavington thought wryly. He composed his own face carefully, not knowing that an onlooker was watching the exchange with a malicious agenda of his own.

That observer, unnoticed in the horde of servants, that very night composed a letter that was dispatched with the utmost speed to Marcus Vinicius in Iberia.

_"…and thus the Atlanti were formally received by the Emperor and by the Caesars, Marcus and Lucius. Nothing was said openly, but reference was made to the story of the thief of Ephesus, whose fate I detailed above. Marcus Aurelius Caesar recited a part of the work of Plato that I obtained for you last year, Lord. Questions were raised about orichalcum. An Atlantean officer, by name Oilion, denied that the substance existed, though the thief's story of a substance emitting a red light would instead seem to confirm it. Marcus Caesar singled out the phrase that describes orichalcum "flashing with a red light." Marcus Caesar then looked at the Atlantean, as if to challenge him, but the officer did not reply. It would seem their denials to the contrary, this rarest of metals does indeed exist—and perhaps only in the land of the Atlanti. It is not surprising that they do not reveal its existence. The thief's story implies that it has divine properties, and could be the source of the amazing powers of the Atlanti. I shall continue to observe them, Lord, and will send a messenger the moment their departure is known…" _

-----

**Notes: **Enterprise---Inceptum (Latin)

Caesar at this time was a title often given to the heir of the Emperor. Obviously it was no longer a cognomen of the Julian family, which was extinct by then. Antoninus Pius had two heirs, whom it was expected would govern jointly, Lucius Aelius Verus and Marcus Aurelius. Verus, who married Marcus' daughter Lucilla some years later, predeceased Antoninus.

Orichalcum--pronounced orikal'kum --as described above--used, I've noticed in some computer D & D type games. Mythical anyway.

The excerpt from the _Kritias_ is from the translation by Benjamin Jowett.

**Next: A Might Fleet.** Greed and stupidity make a dangerous combination, and the inhabitants of New Atlantis are confronted with the resultant threat.


	23. Tavington's Atlantis, part 6

Disclaimer: Don't own anything.

Tavington tries his hand at espionage. Plans are laid to defend New Atlantis.

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 6 **

**A Mighty Fleet: August, 150 A.D. **

"The Emperor has given us a house," Tavington told Diana about a week after their initial audience. They were back on the _Enterprise,_ passing the week's notes and written impressions through the gate. "By us, of course, I mean the Atlantean embassy. In fact, even though he has been told of our departure, he told us the house was still ours. He would like us to establish a permanent diplomatic and trading presence here."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" asked his wife, a little doubtfully.

"Yes, naturally. However, we cannot spare anyone on a permanent basis as of yet. I really thought he was going to demand that Gretchen stay. The Romans may not be great theorists, but they are pragmatic about anything of proven worth."

"And Gretchen is very concerned about it. She wouldn't want to stay alone, of course, but she's been making noises about starting a medical school back on Atlantis. Merianis is only her first student. I can understand why she feels so strongly about it. The Romans are due for the first major European outbreak of plague in about twenty-five or thirty years. The affects, in our own history, were devastating, and contributed to the Empire's weak response to outside attacks."

"We will have to discuss the issue at length. If we allow students on Atlantis, our situation, if not our precise location, will soon be known. And yet—Ferguson is for it. He thinks its time to start breaking the news of their future to the Romans. Antoninus and Marcus Aurelius are well-disposed to us."

Lesley Urquhart entered at that moment. "Well-disposed or not, we really should be moving along. I have two summer midshipmen who need to get back to class at the beginning of September, and we still haven't made our scheduled stops at Massilia and Gades."

She paused, and looked out the little window of the cabin at the deck, where Serapion and Alan were talking about the rarity of trade goods from the Far East. Serapion was wondering if the _Enterprise_ had even sailed to India. She cocked her hear, listening. "India! Everyone's full of suggestions. Yes, I'd love to sail to India, and China, and Japan! Maybe we really could send Todd Aherne east with the _Stargazer._ The Romans aren't the only people in the world, after all."

"Actually," said Tavington, clearing his throat, "I _have_ been thinking about sending another mission out. But not so far as China. Aherne might go to Ireland. It would do no harm to establish some sort of relations with the locals not under the jurisdiction of Rome."

Diana laughed, "And Michael would love it. He'll want to go along. But do the Irish have anything to trade with us that we would want?"

"Oh—yes indeed. Flax, grain, swine. None of our people seemed to want to devote themselves to pig-farming." Both women laughed. He added, "And Michael himself urged it, because he says they have some minerals we need—lead and zinc in particular. To be sure, I think what he really wants is to introduce them to the potato."

"Anyway," Lesley shrugged. "It's all to the good. The more I see of ships and shipping in this time, the more confident I feel. The chances of any ship actually appearing in New Atlantis Harbor are really slim to none."

-----

Before they left, Tavington had the engineers have a good look at the generous-sized house that had been allotted for Atlantean use. A gate was opened, and Doug brought a team to set up rigorous security features. The house might lie empty most of the time, but no trespasser would be able to enter successfully. There were alarms, there were cameras, there were invisible electrical fences that would deliver shocks to anyone foolish enough to try to meddle with Atlantean property. The design of Roman houses, with no windows facing the street, worked to their advantage. Their people would be able to gate in and out of Rome, and none would be the wiser.

A final safety provision Tavington insisted upon. On their last visit to the Flavian Palace, an engineer quickly noted the coordinates of a side-hall. Access to the Imperial family in case of emergency was a handy thing to have.

Ferguson was bringing back a number of topics for discussion: a permanent embassy, some release of medical knowledge in exchange for raw materials and trading rights throughout the Empire. To implement some of the Romans' requests, changes would have to be made in the Atlanteans' current way of life. Would such changes be worth it?

They were bade a formal and gracious farewell. Their next stop was Massilia. That Greek-founded trading city had already been informed of their arrival, and their last days in Rome were partly spent receiving the aggressively friendly overtures of a delegation of Massiliote merchants. Ferguson was informed of the harbor's superiority to that of Gades—of the experience and reliability of the trade network in southern Gaul—even of the superior honesty of the mercantile interests of the city. It was all evidence of the keen interest they had incurred.

No one had been more interested, however, than Marcus Aurelius Caesar. He has studied the strangers carefully, watching to see their reactions when presented with demands or offers. He could not help but notice how often Verguso and Bordo looked at the other officer, Oilion, before speaking. Obfuscation was all part of diplomacy, but he felt strongly that there was more to the tall, blue-eyed Atlantean than had been revealed in the initial introductions. He held his peace for the time being. Future contact would reveal more. He had broached to his adoptive father the idea of traveling with the Atlanteans as far as their stop at Gades, but Antoninus, though still thinking the Atlanteans no enemies, would not hear of risking his heir by entrusting him to a foreign ship. Especially a ship about which there gathered such mystery.

"The reports from Manlius' agent raise more questions than they settle. Very strange goings-on are taking place on that ship. People come and go, seemingly out of nowhere. We must know more before venturing aboard. I cannot have _you_ disappearing, you understand! They have promised to send a permanent diplomatic party in the future, dear boy," the Emperor offered in consolation. "And we will have further reports from the agent. The Atlanti have undertaken to consider taking visitors to their island for study. We will simply have to be patient. Surely," he said, turning a smile on his adoptive son, "patience is not so difficult for a philosopher?"

-----

"I'm gey tired of wonders," Ferguson confided to Tavington, in his radio report from Massilia. "The lot of them here are all very nice and friendly, and taking on about chocolate until I wish I'd ne'er heard of the stuff! I think we're all ready to come home."

"There's only one more stop. Lyudmilla really wants to find out how the last trip might have influenced the city of Gades. You needn't stay long."

"And that's just it. We've received a message from the Governor, Marcus Vinicius. He wants us to put in at Cartago Nova, on the Mediterranean coast. He says there's sickness in Gades, and the port is closed."

"Closed?" Tavington took this in. _Rubbish! What sickness? _

"Aye," Ferguson replied grimly, understanding his friend's unspoken thought. "It sounds suspect to me, too. Maybe there's something going on there the man doesn't want us to see."

"Well, too bad," Tavington snapped. "Go on to Cartago Nova and see the fellow. Make what you can of him, and put out some feelers for any gossip. In the meantime, we'll have a look at Gades for ourselves."

He signed off, and then slumped in his chair. This could not have been more inconvenient. He would have to undertake this secret reconnaissance of Gades himself. Even if Ferguson and Bordon were not engaged in diplomacy on the Enterprise, they were too recognizable in the town. Besides, Tavington had been in Gades briefly himself, during that first expedition. No one would know him there; his Latin was accented but passable; and he could take care of himself. He would dress simply, as an artisan or tradesman, and no one would take notice of him. Of course, he could not carry a sword, but under a cloak he could carry a long knife and a pistol. It would be an amusing escapade.

He had another good thought. Lysis was here in town, busy with his Greek and Latin tutoring. He would have the freedman vet any disguise. Lysis would be able to tell him if he looked the part sufficiently. More cheerful at the thought, he left the radio room, and headed to the costume shop; wanting to look through their collection of Roman garments.

He passed through the grey metal halls, and entered the vast work room. The usual pleasant odors of fabric, dye, lavender sachets, and bleach struck him at once. He saw Polly first, where she stood at a large cutting table. Caitlin and Sally were engaged in hand sewing, and Kathleen was running something up on a sewing machine. It was a pleasantly busy, domestic scene, and the ladies present saw him and smiled. Baby Mary was in a basket near Sally's feet. None of the other little ones were in sight.

"Where are the children?" he asked.

Sally's mouth was full of pins. She nodded toward Polly, who took a moment from her cutting to answer him. "Diana and Clytie have them today. We're behindhand, and needed some uninterrupted time to finish these school clothes for the older children."

Tavington nodded, and went to the storage cupboards, rummaging about for something that would do.

Polly called after him, "What are you looking for?"

"Oh, just something unobtrusive and Roman."

The women were silent a moment, and then came the avalanche. They were out of their seats, and bearing down on him.

Sally hastily removed her pins so she could quiz him. "A disguise? Is it for you? Does Diana know?"

_So much for my career as a secret agent. Everyone in New Atlantis will know by dinnertime._

Patiently, he answered. "I have only just heard from Pattie. There seems to be something going on in Gades that the governor does not want us to see. He sent a message that there is sickness in Gades and the port there is closed. The _Enterprise_ has been diverted to Cartago Nova. It would be wise to look into the matter."

Caitlin was horrified. "What if there really is an epidemic? It might not be safe for you!"

And so on and so on. The concern of these dear women for his safety was touching and gratifying, but a little irritating all the same. Tavington assured them that he would do nothing without the consent of the Committee, and they subsided a little, distracted by finding him a nice linen tunic, a stout leather belt for his weapons, sturdy traveling boots, and a hooded cloak of grey wool. He would be decently dressed and quite inconspicuous, other than being unusually tall for a citizen of Gades. If questioned, he could claim to be a Gaul or a Briton.

He smiled at the irony. _And I am a Briton, so it would not be a lie._ His hair was too long for a Roman, but he could keep his hood over his head. If worse came to worse, he would just be thought a barbarian. He must wear it unbound. A queue would shout "Atlantis!" even to a casual observer.

Of course, Polly went running to Diana before dinner, and his wife was equally horrified. Tavington patiently explained why he believed that he was the only man for the mission, and finally forbade further talk about the matter until after the Committee's meeting the next morning. Since it was a serious matter indeed, he sent word for Markham, as the only other officer on Atlantis, to attend. He also notified Michael and Mark in Africa. He would not mind if either of them accompanied him. If there was truly a plague of some sort, Mark would be able to identify it. Michael was always good company. And he certainly should be kept apprised of events.

-----

"I should be the one going, Colonel," Markham persisted.

And once again, Tavington said no. "You cannot be spared, Lieutenant. You are the only officer left on Atlantis. You must stay. And it would be good idea if you remained on duty at the retrieval center throughout the mission. I may have to make a quick exit."

Mark, looking very brown from his African gold mining, agreed that he himself should go. "And before we go, we all need to be immunized against whatever might be lurking there."

Tavington groaned. It would delay him by a few days. The more he thought about the Governor's subterfuge, the more anxious he became. Mark was right, though. He did not want to catch some foul sickness in a pesthole like Gades—and then bring it back to his home and family. Mark, too, was not known to the inhabitants of Gades, but Michael was. As much as he would have liked to go, it was decided that it would make the mission too risky.

The meeting dragged on for some time. About mid-morning, there was a knock, and Trinity poked her head in. "Sorry to bother you, but I have someone out here who really wants to talk to you." She stepped back, and Tavington saw Lysis standing behind her, his shoulders hunched defensively.

Diana smiled encouragement at the man, and Tavington motioned him to enter. "Come in, Lysis. What did you wish to tell us?"

The man walked into the room a few steps, and bowed. Plainly nervous and uncomfortable, he swallowed, and then blurted out in halting English, "If you must go secretly into Gades, Lord, I would go with you."

_Secret mission! A laughable notion! Probably all the schoolchildren are discussing it as we speak! _

Surprised at the man's willingness to join him, Tavington pointed out, "You did not wish to accompany the expedition. What has caused you to change your mind?"

"I have not changed my mind, Lord. This is a different matter. If you wish to find out what is afoot in Gades, I can be of help. I lived long in the city, and know it well. You have no one else here who can say as much. It is my duty."

"You may be recognized."

"No, Lord!" the man said excitedly, and then grew embarrassed at his boldness, "As you see, I have become a true Atlantean! I have allowed my hair to grow long, and have shaved my beard. I have been gone a long time. No one would easily penetrate my new appearance, and I can lead you and the worthy physician through all the secret ways of the city, with none the wiser. We shall travel by means of the blue light, shall we not?"

Some at the committee table were grinning. Tavington ignored them. "Yes," he replied. "We shall." A touch grimly, he added. "The doctor must prepare us both, in case there truly is sickness in Gades. Are you not afraid?"

"Yes, Lord," the man assented frankly. "I am afraid. But only I know Gades."

"So be it."

-----

Before he left, Tavington found himself with two days at his disposal, and a wife who kept looking at him expectantly. It was a ridiculous situation. Evidently, he was to have no peace until he dealt with Jennifer.

It would be simply too bizarre to communicate with her through Diana. He must gird himself for a curious conversation, and get it over with. Thus, early the following day, he set off for the Conservatory.

When the Project had moved, Jennifer's extensive greenhouses and their adjoining offices had been detached from the main Laboratory. They were set, instead, in a pleasant green space of their own, a little apart from the town proper. Before reaching the Conservatory, there were the garden plots, where individual citizens tried their hand at cultivation. Tavington walked down the path cutting through them, enjoying the sight as he always did, and once again promising himself that he would have a garden of his own sometime when his life permitted it. A number of people had shown a real talent for growing things, and earned a little income for themselves, and helped vary the diet on Atlantis. There were melon patches, and rows of sunflowers (Markham was mad about sunflower seeds); others grew sweet corn, and still others pumpkins, and squash of all kinds. There were hot peppers, and sweet peppers, and dozens of tomato varieties. There were all sorts of cooking and medicinal herbs, though the settlement's official medical garden was elsewhere, north of the Laboratory, and lovingly tended by Tracy, with some assistance from her new soldier husband and her little boy.

Some simply wished to potter about, growing something of beauty. Rogelio Moreno, one of Jennifer's assistants, had suggested that flowers could be a marketable crop someday, if the Atlanteans would simply gate him and his roses, lilies, and carnations directly into Rome. It might be a possibility. The flowers, at the very least, could be gated onto the ship prior to its arrival in harbor. Let the Romans sort out how they kept fresh on the voyage. There was indeed a great demand for flowers, though Rogelio would have to sell in bulk to earn much for his labors.

He entered the main green house, and breathed in the familiar, earthy scents. He made his way through the maze of growing tables, and saw the woman he sought through the glass door to one of the smaller houses further down, the one she used for her most delicate tropicals. He stepped inside and was immediately uncomfortable in the blast of heat and humidity. Jennifer was dressed for the place, in tan shorts and a sleeveless white top. She was still too thin, and looked like a tall, gawky child.

She looked up and noticed him. Giving him a nervous, excessively bright smile, she waved, and then pretended to be very busy with a plant, leaning over it, letting her hair sweep down and hide her face. Tavington sympathized with her embarrassment, though she had brought it on herself. He walked directly to her. Dithering over the matter would only prolong the agony.

"Good day to you, Jennifer," he said gently. "I hope you are well."

She did not look up, and responded with a whispered, "Hello," of her own. She fussed over the plant, picking away at some brown-edged leaves. When the silence lasted too long, Tavington put his hand over hers.

It was meant as a friendly gesture, but Jennifer was horribly startled. With a squeak and a jump, she jerked away, and bruised her hip against the work table behind her. "Ow!"

Tavington knew better than to laugh at her. "Here," he said, firmly grasping her wrist and helping her right herself, "I am sorry to frighten you, but we must talk. Why don't we go into your office? It's hellish in here."

She looked up then, and he could see she was red with blushes, and grateful to him for letting her pass it off as the heat. Wordlessly, she led the way out of the room, out into the main greenhouse, and then down the long aisle to the offices and living quarters.

The office was spartan, and the little sitting room of hers behind it no less so. She waved him to a very modern-looking chair, and sat down in one herself, facing him at an awkward distance. _All right,_ he decided, _I am the man and the soldier, and she is a shy young woman. I must try to make this easy for her. No beating about the bush.  
_

Directly, he said, "Diana tells me you very much want to have a child."

"Oh, yes! More than anything!"

"Are you sure you would not rather find yourself a husband before undertaking such a role? It will not be easy for you."

She studied the floor. "Colonel--I can't. It's never going to happen. I'm not like so many of the other women. I've never dreamed of a wedding day or of a perfect romance. But lately, I've been thinking about babies. I see them everywhere, and then I feel this ache in my stomach," she said, pressing her hand to her middle. "I want a baby. I can't think about anything else. I want a baby all the time. I don't want to adopt a child. I want a baby, my own little baby."

"Forgive me for asking, but it is my duty. Are you quite well enough? Have you discussed this thoroughly with a doctor? I cannot be party to anything that would compromise your health."

She managed a brief grimace of a smile. "Carolyn checked me out and said I'm good to go, if I watch my diet and take vitamin supplements. I'll do whatever I have to. I just have to have this one baby."

Tavington sighed. "Why me? I must ask. There are hundreds of men on this island."

She fidgeted in her chair. "Lots of reasons. I guess the main one is that you're good genetic material." She saw his blank expression and smiled shyly. "That means you're strong and smart and healthy. You've already helped make three very nice babies, so I think you're the stuff of good fathers."

He cleared his throat. "I would indeed be this child's father. It would be unkind and unfair not to acknowledge the child and spend time with it."

"That's great!" she looked up, with the first truly happy expression he had seen so far. "You're so good with your own children. That's another thing. Everybody knows how you and Diana feel about each other. No one would think you'd been unfaithful to her, and she's so nice I know she won't be mad about this. She's even willing to tell her children about my baby."

"Of course," Tavington said gently. "They will be brothers and sisters. But you work hard, and I am concerned that you might not have the time to care for a child by yourself. Have you even thought about where the child would live?"

She jumped up, crying "Come see!" Grabbing his hand, she pulled him down a little hall, past her own nun-like cell, into a little room facing the garden plots.

It was a fully furnished nursery, bright with yellow and white. It was not complete, for there were cans of paint and a dropcloth in a corner. She had been making a very successful attempt to paint the ceiling to resemble a blue sky with puffy white clouds. With the sunny yellow walls, and the pristine white furnishings, it was a charming room. Tavington felt an acute pang of pity, and knew then he would not be capable of refusing her.

She was watching him, waiting nervously for his opinion. "Do you like it?" she faltered. "It's not done yet--"

He put a soothing hand on her shoulder. "It is a beautiful nursery, Jennifer. The baby who lives here will be very, very, lucky."

There was no help for it. He would see Mark tomorrow, and perform whatever absurdity was required of him. He gave Jennifer another smile, and she became quite radiant, showing a glimpse of the young woman she should have been, with a happier past.

_I hope I'm doing the right thing. Perhaps this will indeed give her a happier future, at least. And Diana will be pleased._

_-----_

A flash of blue, a sensation of utter darkness and extreme cold, and the Tavington, with Mark and Lysis, found himself in an alley behind the Temple of Venus Victrix in Gades. It was late afternoon. Gating into a city at night had proved too risky: the last time Markham had done it, the bright blue light lit up the black skies like a great sign saying, "something unusual going on here." It seemed wiser to go in during daylight hours when the light would be masked by sunshine.

It was a particularly malodorous alley. Tavington found himself standing in a puddle and cursed, quietly and feelingly.

Mark was briefly sympathetic, and then turned to the business at hand. "Where to, Colonel?"

"The forum. We can lounge about there and try to pick up some local gossip. Let's get out of here, first of all."

With some encouragement, Lysis took the lead, taking them out of the alley and down a twisting byway toward the heart of the town. They found themselves in a street near a market. Merchants hawked olives and olive oil, pots and baskets, fruits and chickens. Tavington pushed past an old woman selling jars of _garum_, the fermented sauce made from fish-guts with which the Romans apparently doused all of their food. Mark winced at the appalling stink. Tavington snorted a laugh. It had been hard enough to persuade the 21's to make fish part of their diet—even the fresh, delicious tuna and swordfish that were plentiful around their islands. This horrible condiment, on the other hand, was enough to make Tavington himself eschew seafood permanently. Lysis, for his part, looked back wistfully at the jars.

_Oh, well. I can tell Diana what to get the poor fellow for a Christmas present. But he'll have to use it sparingly—and at the far end of the dining table!_

The town was bustling with activity—voices called out on all sides—people were going about their business. Tavington traded a knowing look with the doctor. There certainly was no indication of a city in the throes of an epidemic. Lysis led them down a stone ramp at the end of the street, and they found themselves in the compact, picturesque forum of the city.

Tavington looked around and found that he remembered some it from his earlier visit. There was the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus that he had admired previously. The three of them could linger there without attracting undue notice.

They climbed the short flight of steps that took them to the temple portico. From there, they had a good vantage point to survey the forum as a whole.

Mark muttered low, "No sign of sickness at all, that I can see."

Lysis agreed. "Yes, Lord. If there were plague, we would see the smoke from the pyres. But the city is very busy."

It was busy, and full of—"Soldiers," remarked Tavington. "Is there always such a military presence?" Legionaries strolled to the streets, in groups of two or three or more, the very picture of martial men enjoying a town furlough.

Lysis stared in wonder. "No, Lord. Not so many, ever. The 31st Legion is based in Italica, a little further north. I have never seen so many soldiers in Gades all at once."

At that moment a little troop came through the forum at the double, trotting blithely through the townspeople who scurried to avoid being trampled. Unintelligible as to words, but perfectly understandable by tone of voice, their—sergeant—it must be—because no one else on earth sounded like that—bellowed a command, and they turned into the broader avenue that led south from the forum.

"Where are they going?" Tavington asked Lysis in an undertone.

"That way is the harbor, Lord."

"Let's follow them." It gave him some comfort to have a goal. Eagerly, he made his way through the crowd at the intersection, intent on seeing where the troop had gone. There was a touch at his shoulder. Lysis was looking at him in dismay, and Tavington realized that he had forgotten the freedman's counsel about being humble and unobtrusive. It was bad enough that he and Mark were nearly a head taller that most of the crowd. They were getting some curious looks. And not just from the townspeople. Some soldiers—non-coms, at least, not rankers—were eyeing them appraisingly.

_Oh, well done, Will, _he though in irritation. _We certainly don't need to attract the attention of some second century press-gang._

Following the freedman's example, he ducked his head, forced his erect posture to droop, and slunk into the shadows of a wine shop, away from the stares. He passed Lysis a few Roman coins, and sent the freedman to fetch drinks for the three of them. They leaned against the wall, sipping the raw red liquor, until those who had seen them had passed by.

More carefully, now, the three of them shuffled along the sides of the street: a trio of peasant farmers, or slaves, or unemployed louts living on the fringes of town life. The air changed, and Tavington caught the salt scent, and heard the cries of the seabirds at the water's edge. Another turn, and a steep ramp, and the harbor lay before them.

Mark took a deep breath. Lysis stared open-mouthed. Tavington grimaced, partly from the harsh taste of the cheap wine he had just drunk, and partly because he was facing an unpleasant reality.

"No wonder Vinicius didn't want us to see this."

Mark shook his head in disbelief, "What the hell are they up to?"

"Planning an invasion, I would imagine."

The harbor was full of warships: a number of sleek triremes, several wide-bodies transports, and higher than the rest, a huge quinquireme, undoubtedly the flagship. With five banks of oars, a small catapult at the stern, an upper deck for archers, and room for a boarding crew, it was impressive, and bigger than the _Enterprise_.

_But not nearly as formidable, not really_, Tavington thought with some scorn. _Vinicius is a fool if he tries to take these ships out on the open ocean. _

Of course," he told Mark, "the governor doesn't know about the _Enterprise's _weaponry, nor about its auxiliary engines. With a complement of sailors and marines of only fifteen, he may think it incapable of defending itself. He's in for something of a shock. I hope I'm there to see it."

Mark looked grim. "Do you suppose the Romans have been planning this all along? All of that hospitality Gretchen told me about was just a trick?"

"I don't know. I hope not. It's possible that this is entirely Vinicius' idea. The Emperor did not strike me as the sort to leap rashly into ill-advised schemes."

Lysis nudged him again. "Lord," he murmured. Then more anxiously, "Lord!"

Tavington felt his scalp prickle as he sensed men crowding up behind them. He turned. A group of soldiers, more or less in uniform, were looking them over judiciously. Their leader, a burly fellow with a single dark brow joined over a broken nose, addressed Tavington without ceremony. "Slave or free?"

"Free," Tavington answered automatically. He fought his natural impulse to sneer at the man, satisfied that he could simply look down upon him.

The soldier ignored Tavington's attitude and looked the three of them over like so much livestock.

"They look fit enough," he remarked to a companion.

That individual grinned, showing gaps from missing teeth. It caused him to lisp a little. "Big and strong, decurion. And no rich owners to complain."

Tavington said quietly, "I think we'll be on our way now."

"You'll be coming with us, you lot. Don't you know we're at war? The Governor needs rowers for the galleys, and you've just enlisted."

There were four of them. Tavington thought he could deal with the squat decurion and two of his friends handily enough, if Mark and Lysis could keep the fourth occupied. He needed to get back to Atlantis with his information. And he needed to take his companions with him. Mark could cope with the situation, but he was worried about Lysis. The man might simply fall apart, panic, and forget about his homing beacon until it was too late. Already his face reflected the horror of being sent to the galleys. A short life, and a thoroughly unpleasant one.

Tavington was about to go for his pistol, witnessing crowds or no, when Mark suddenly spoke up. "All right, but I'm not leaving our things back at that inn for the landlord to steal. There's the winejars and the rest of the money—"

Tavington stared at him, nonplussed. The soldiers interpreted this as a look of anger at Mark for revealing too much, and they guffawed. The decurion gave Mark's shoulder a half-friendly clout. "Show us these winejars of yours, galley-hand. We help you get them stored on the ship—no fear."

Mark muttered peevishly, "I don't know. There's a lot of them."

"All the better," bawled out one of the soldiers, now in a jovial mood.

Tavington was full of admiration at Mark's stratagem. Now to lead their unwanted companions through some deserted alleys—and get rid of them. One of the soldiers gave Tavington a push. He shoved the man off in his turn, and while there was a brief scuffle, Mark had time to whisper the idea to Lysis.

Sulkily, Tavington snarled, "We're coming—just keep your hands off me!"

One of the soldiers grinned. "For now, anyway."

Lysis mumbled fearfully, "Through here."

They ducked into a maze of narrow streets, heading away from the forum, and into a poorer neighborhood. Crumbling stone-and-daub houses fronted the streets. A few half-naked children were torturing a puppy by an open doorway. The soldiers gawked at them, laughing, while Tavington gave Lysis a meaning look. The freedman appeared to be considering the matter, and then led them towards an archway at a narrow intersection.

He murmured low to Tavington, "Once inside, Lord, turn to your right…"

Mark was just behind them. Tavington slowed a little, enough to bump into him and pass on the message. The doorway loomed up, sound old brickwork with a little shrine to the Lares of the crossroads. They passed through, and Tavington pushed Lysis forward and out of the way. "Use your beacon!" he hissed.

He grabbed the nearest soldier, and slammed him against the wall. He was stunned, and fell to the ground, his face smeared with blood. There was a shout, and two of the men reached out to snatch at him. Mark punched one of them accurately in the solar plexus and he went down. Tavington could see Lysis standing there frozen with terror. He shouted this time. "Go now, you idiot!" The man fumbled with the cord around his neck and there was the blessed cool blue of a gating.

The other two Romans were distracted and startled by the light, and Tavington took the opportunity to reach for his own beacon. The decurion launched himself at Tavington, teeth bared, and they both fell to the ground, on top of the soldier Tavington had knocked unconscious. The other soldier drew his sword, fumbling in the melee, and Mark pulled him past him, using the man's own momentum to throw him off balance.

Tavington, sandwiched between the two Romans, had at last found his own beacon. Reaching for it left his throat bare, and decurion had grabbed him in a chokehold. He kneed the man savagely. The decurion grunted and released his grip enough for Tavington to shout at Mark. "I've got it! Go!"

The doctor instantly obeyed, disappearing with a quick blue flash. As soon as he was gone, Tavington pressed his own button. Strong, dirty hands scrabbled at his throat again. There was a nerve-wracking pause of a split-second, and then the blue light flared, brighter and almost sparking. He felt nothing but cold for a moment, and then found himself in the retrieval post of the Laboratory, with Mark only feet away; and Markham, tranquilizer pistol in hand, bearing down on him with a murderous expression.

Startled, he realized that the Roman decurion had gated along with him, and was still doggedly trying to strangle him. Markham shot the man in the back and threw him off of his colonel. Tavington coughed and tripped as he got up.

The Roman he had stunned in the alley was lying on the floor underneath him. He, too, had gated along with Tavington. Mark turned this man over more gently, looking at his broken nose and teeth, and remarked, "It's a miracle the two of them came through intact. I'll need to treat this one."

"As you wish, Mark," Tavington shrugged. "But they will remain under guard. I'm very interested in finding out from this _decurion_," he said, giving the man an unfriendly nudge with a booted foot, "what he means by 'at war.'"

-----

News of Tavington's narrow escape, and of the huge fleet gathered at Gades spread quickly throughout New Atlantis. Tavington called a meeting of all citizens, who crowded into the auditorium. It was better to tell them the facts than to allow rumor to create a panic.

Besides, there were the prisoners. The decurion, whose name they learned was Proculo, and the injured legionary, Galbinus, were locked up in an underground room in the lowest level of the Laboratory. And not simply locked up. Markham and Doug Horn had thought ahead, and devised an impressive security system. The door to the room was electrified on the inside. Not enough power to kill, but enough to shock and render insensible. Even if the Romans had escaped the first room, the rest of the hallways used retinal scans to identify anyone at the doors.

But there was no attempt at escape those first few days. The Romans were utterly demoralized: bewildered by the brilliant electrical lighting, the mysterious "speakers" in the walls, the gleaming steel and incomprehensible "fiberglass." Every word they spoke was being monitored, and revealed more about the Roman's plans than any formal questioning could have.

The Romans had been curious about the sophisticated plumbing and had mucked it up right away, stopping up the toilet, and scalding themselves in the shower. It had been necessary to haul them out, in chains, while the plumbing was repaired; and Dion Philippides contemptuously explained the proper use of the sanitary facilities to his erstwhile masters.

"And locked up they shall remain," Tavington proclaimed tartly. The anxious Atlanteans shifted restlessly, appearing somewhat reassured by the measures that Tavington was explicating at the meeting. "We have learned a great deal from the prisoners, without their knowledge. They are hardly of high rank, but have picked up enough soldiers' gossip for us to know that Marcus Vinicius is indeed planning an invasion of Atlantis. He is obsessed with the idea of obtaining orichalcum, a mythical precious metal."

This raised a new tumult of questions. He deferred the answers on that particular issue to Alan, who could explain the origins of that legend. It was something of an embarrassment to the classicists, who had never imagined that the Romans would fasten on that particular fantasy, mentioned in only two places in a utopian dialogue by Plato.

"How do they know how to find us?" called out Sonia, the computer systems tech. She was a voluptuous woman and rather flirtatious. Today, she was simply voluptuous—and worried.

"They don't—not really," Tavington assured his audience. "Vinicius is a fairly clever man, however, and has received intelligence about us during the course of our expedition around the Mediterranean. He has learned much about the sailing speed of the _Enterprise_; and extrapolating from a few dropped remarks about our climate, the amount of water and provisions that were loaded onto the ship when it left Gades on the first visit, and the direction the ship was sailing in when last sighted, has made some estimates about our possible position. He does not, of course, know about _Enterprise's _auxiliary engine, and the actual speeds it can attain using it. However, I would be remiss if I did not take this threat seriously."

He talked a little longer, mostly to reassure them. He explained the hazards that shallow draft, rowed Roman vessels, designed for coastal waters in the Mediterranean, would face if they attempted to venture into the open Atlantic. Further, he informed them that he would be meeting with a number of military and technical people to create a defense strategy. Patrols would be instituted, and further intelligence would be gathered.

"The question of the collusion of the Empire's highest levels in this expedition remains open. We have reason to believe that the Emperor is unaware of Vinicius' plans. That could work to our advantage."

In listening to the prisoner's talk, it had been revealed that some of the more senior officers, notably two military tribunes with ties to the Senate, had been sent on missions that would take them out of the province for some time. That fact, combined with the closing of the harbor, indicated that Vinicius was attempting to keep his movements somewhat secret. By the time the news of the fleet got back to Rome, he was probably hoping to present the Emperor with a _fait accompli_--and a successful one at that.

A bold move--but a foolish one. Viniciuis would have Tavington to deal with, and did not yet know what that meant.

-----

The military staff met later in the day. Tavington looked down the table in the elegant meeting room at the Laboratory. Ferguson, Urquhart, and Bordon had gated in from the _Enterprise_, on its way to Cartago Nova. Markham was there, of course, looking grim and focused.

For this level of planning, Tavington had called in the commanders of their ships and their aircraft. Michael, of course, a trusted friend—but also their most experienced helicopter pilot. The captains of the two sleek sailing yachts, Todd Aherne of the _Stargazer_, and Barbara Gustafson of the _Reliant, _were there as well. When the pilots of their two precious airplanes arrived,. Tavington briskly informed them that they were now officers of the armed forces of New Atlantis.

Max Reinhardt, the older of the two, was not too surprised. He had served in an Air Force before, and merely grinned and nodded at his captain's commission. Ashley DeJong, their pilot on Numenor, was somewhat bemused. She was accustomed to the languid pace of life on the smaller island, flying mainly in cases of medical emergencies.

Tavington had reservations about commissioning a woman. It set an undesirable precedent for the future, but he could see no way out of it. After Reinhardt, she was by far the best pilot they had. They had undertaken to train others, but with no other aircraft, Tavington decided to go ahead and call the young woman a Lieutenant.

_After all, it is not as if she would be a line officer, attempting to command men. Besides the precedent, for good or ill, exists on shipboard. Lesley Urquhart is irreplaceable._

Reinhardt thought regular patrols should be instituted. "We have sufficient fuel now," he pointed out. "Michael's done wonders. And since all we really need it for are the boats and the aircraft, it should last awhile."

So it was settled that the planes would patrol twice a day, one north and east, and the other south and east, their times and paths overlapping slightly. In addition, A watch would be set on the places that were accessible by sea: Aurora Point, Atlantis' easternmost tongue of land; the hill on the north coast of Numenor that was called Weathertop; and at Markham's insistence, at the uninhabited but jewel-like little bay on the northwest tip of New Atlantis. Cabins would be built in those places, communications devices installed, and lookouts posted. The harbormaster and his wife on Numenor would be charged with keeping an eye on the sea at the settlement, which faced south, and would be the most inviting shore for invading ships. Julie Kolb and her two assistants, up in her observatory above the town of New Atlantis, would have a similar duty. It might be excessive, but Tavington had long felt that they were perhaps too trusting to their isolation. Even in the ordinary course of events, ships could be blown their way.

However, these precautions only dealt with a part of their situation. They might have fair warning of an attack, but they must also be prepared to repel one. And so Dieter Held was also there, their Captain-Armourer, and an army in himself. The _Enterprise _was armed already: weapons that the Romans could not identify as weapons: the missile launchers, the mortar. They debated whether the ship should be recalled home, but both Urquhart and Ferguson were against it.

"I want to look yon Vinicius in the eye, and ask him about the rumours I've heard of a fleet massing at Gades. I want to see his face." Ferguson smiled wolfishly. "It may be that this foolishness can be prevented."

"And what if he simply arrests you and tried to seize the ship?" Tavington demanded, smiling in his turn.

"Well, I can always follow the example of my esteemed Colonel, and push my—orichalcum—button."

Lesley Urquhart added, " It _is_ possible they could find us. Even with their fragile craft, they could get lucky, especially during a spell of good weather and calm seas. But the _Enterprise_ can handle any threat the Romans throw at it, even in harbor. In fact, a good fight there might convince them that they have no chance against us." She thumped a hand flat on the table. "Pattie's diplomacy has been almost _too_ suave. We've never had to fire a shot throughout the voyage. Maybe we should have given them a glimpse of what our weapons can do."

"Well," Michael smirked. "If they manage to get all the way out to us, we can fire a shot over their bows. That will scare the bejeezus out of them." And, he said, more thoughtfully, "We can use the sound system in the helicopter to tell them to clear off."

Tavington looked approvingly at him, remember the terrifying voice blaring out of the helicopters as they had fled 21st century North Dakota. "It would sound like the voice of God."

"Or some god," shrugged Dieter. "A more impressive god than they have known in a long time. And then we can add a nice blast of a flame-thrower so they see we are serious."

Tavington leaned back in his chair, thinking. "Actually, if it comes to an invasion attempt, I am just as glad we did not show them our flying machines. The impact will be much greater."

"But what if that isn't enough?" asked Bordon. "Let us say that we try the flying machines and the voice of a fire-breathing god, and the Romans, who are no cowards, forge ahead anyway. We must engage them, in the most efficient way, and one that will put our own people at the least risk."

"Well said," commended Tavington. "Yes. We must prepare for the worst."

Dieter pulled out a notebook, in which meticulous figures were arranged in columns. "I have prepared some ideas about how to arm the aircraft and ships at our command. There must be additional training for the weapons I am suggesting. In the case of the two yachts, it would be best to man them with four Marines in addition to their regular crew: two with automatic weapons, and two to fire grenade launchers. One of them should be equipped with phosphorus grenades. The Roman ships will be unable to extinguish the fires. All sailors, of course, to be given pistols and edged weapons."

"Christ," Max Reinhardt managed. "The Romans won't know what hit them."

"They may not," the German returned calmly, "but they'll know never to try to fuck with us again."

There was a brief silence. With a cheerful air, Ferguson said, "There's a great deal of sense in what you say."

Satisfied, Dieter continued. "I saw to it that the _Enterprise_ was well-armed before it left for the expedition." He looked for confirmation at Lesley Urquhart, who nodded. He said, "The two largest motorboats should be retrofitted with torpedos."

"We have _torpedos?"_ Markham was in awe.

_"Ja,"_ Dieter answered, "of course. Not many—only fifty-two. There should be a crew of three on the motorboats: pilot, torpedo technician, and a Marine properly armed."

He was not finished. "Also the aircraft, naturally, are essential. The helicopter already has a machine gun and missile launchers. Michael knows how to use them. In addition, I suggest a gun crew of five, armed with automatic weapons and grenades. The Romans do not have effective missile weapons to prevent a very close approach. The helicopter is likely to prove tremendously effective against second century armament."

Michael frowned, thinking it through. He nodded.

Dieter turned to the two pilots. "That leaves the two airplanes. The Kleinschafter can carry four, and has a good cargo capacity. However, because of its design, it is only possible for two passengers to use weapons. We will have to remove the passenger window at the right side, and the door on the left. The plane can then be used to strafe any ships below." Looking at Ashley DeJong, he said, "The Cessna is too small to be of use for much more than scouting. However, it can carry an armed passenger. And the pilots, of course, should have sidearms."

Max Reinhardt agreed. Ashley DeJong said nothing, but smiled tightly. She had never carried a pistol or wanted to, but she was not going to say as much to this roomful of testosterone. She was quite sure she would be too busy flying her plane to bother taking ineffectual potshots at old-timers.

Tavington took over. "We shall make individual assignments and schedule necessary training immediately. We shall also establish small units that can be used flexibly on the ground where necessary. It would also be wise to arm a number of our civilians, especially those on lookout duty. But of course, now that we know our material resources more thoroughly, we must get down to the details of our response plan…"

Within another two hours they had a satisfactory scheme, and Captain Urquhart returned to the _Enterprise_. Ferguson and Bordon remained to finalize assignments, and then delightfully surprise their wives with their unexpected appearance at dinner. Another two hours saw them returned to the _Enterprise_, which was within sight of Cartago Nova and the anticipated confrontation with Governor Vinicius.

-----

**Notes**: decurion—non-commissioned officer, leader of a squad of ten men.

**Next:** Part 7, **A Voice from the Sky. **The inevitable clash .**  
**


	24. Tavington's Atlantis, part 7

Disclaimer: See all preceding chapters.

_A fateful meeting at the Pillars of Hercules, and Tavington returns to Rome. _

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 7 **

**The Inevitable Clash: August, 150 A.D.**

"He says there's no such fleet."

"Indeed?" Tavington grimaced. "You have spoken to him?"

Ferguson's voice, thin but clear from the radio, confirmed his speculation: Governor Vinicius was the fly in their ointment, the man who might ruin all their prospects of productive coexistence with Rome.

"We received a letter. The governor says to wait, and he'll be along directly. Meanwhile, 'we are misinformed.' He insists that there is an epidemic in Gades, that there is no fleet, and that he wouldna dream of showing hostility to his friends the Atlanti. All with a great many rhetorical flourishes and professions of regard. He must think we're fools."

Markham was in the radio room with Tavington, and snorted. "No chocolate for him!"

Tavington smiled despite his worry. Then he thought more seriously. _There's many a true word spoken in jest._ He seconded Markham's observation. "No chocolate for him, indeed. When Marcus Vinicius arrives, make clear to him how very unwise it would be for—_anyone_—to attempt an attack on New Atlantis. Be on your guard."

"I'll do what I can. I think the man is deaf to reason."

Markham interposed softly, "Maybe Vinicius just wants the Major and the _Enterprise_ out of the way, and he's hoping they'll stay in Cartago Nova while he—" He did not finish the sentence.

The thought had occurred to Tavington earlier. Now it suddenly seemed horribly likely.

"Come home. Forget Vinicius. He knew you were coming. If he wanted to be there, he'd be there. Is Captain Urquhart nearby?"

"Here, Colonel."

"Come home immediately. Make the best speed you can. Swing close to Gades and see if the fleet is under sail. If you sight them, try not to engage them, but notify us, and show them your heels."

The captain's voice was cool and urgent. "You know, Colonel, if it came to it, the _Enterprise_ could take that entire fleet. A piece of cake, really. Right there in the harbor."

_And I thought she was peaceful by nature. The quiet ones always surprise you. _

"I am certain that you could, but do not engage the fleet unless your own safety is in question. I am hoping to resolve this rationally. Good luck to you all."

Ferguson signed off, and Tavington was left to ponder the situation. An attack from that quarter could lead to a number of outcomes—all unpleasant. The worst, obviously, would be New Atlantis overrun by conquering Romans, but that was also the most unlikely. Their defenses were sound.

Another possibility would be that the Romans would attack and would be repulsed with heavy casualties. Part of him longed for such a fight. A good, stand-and-deliver battle that would make clear to all who the great military power in this backward age now was. It was an exciting, seductive prospect, and he groaned inwardly as he repressed the impulse. He was no longer a simple cavalry officer, but the leader of a fledgling nation, and the father of children. He must think carefully, and in the long term. A crushing defeat would lead to the Romans regarding them as enemies and rejecting their overtures. It was just bad all around.

Worse was to follow. They were in the middle of training exercises the following morning, out at the airport, climbing in and out of the helicopter. Target practice was planned at the tiny waterless islet they called Rock Island, when they saw the boy from the radio room come out and wave frantically at them. His mouth was moving—he appeared to be shouting—but no sound was audible with the roar of the chopper. Tavington climbed down and went to meet him.

"Dad patched Major Ferguson through to me, sir! They're under attack!"

"What!" He strode toward the little shack that housed the radio and the other electronic equipment.

"It's true, Colonel! They were on their way home, and these ships were waiting for them at Gibraltar—or the Pillars of Hercules! Whatever!"

-----

Ferguson had never seen Gibraltar before, but there was no mistaking that distant shape. The Rock was ancient, and unique. Bordon came up on deck and stood beside him, admiring it in his turn.

"What's that up ahead?"

Lesley Urquhart was on her quarterdeck with a telescope. Before Ferguson could retrieve his own, she turned and informed them grimly, "A reception committee."

As they drew nearer they saw them more clearly: five sleek triremes, in formation at the narrowest point of the Straits. Their spacing made it difficult to pass without a very close approach to one or another of them.

A deep voice hailed them from the leader. "_Enterprise! _We have a message for you! Allow us to put alongside, that we may deliver it!"

Lesley Urquhart called back, "What message? And from whom?"

"The Governor! Marcus Vinicius has news for you!"

_I'll just bet he does. _

The drumbeat of the galleys was quickening—a dull, heavy boom that traveled above the waves. The triremes were closing in about _Enterprise_, like wolves around a stag. The simile crossed the captain's mind, and she grinned. _They don't know the world of hurt they're in for. _

Ferguson climbed up beside her. "Your ship, Captain. Do we let the fellow board us, or blow him out of the water now?"

She answered in a perfectly calm voice. "Major, I want all hands on deck. Have your men prepare to receive boarders. Ready the gun crews. Arwen," she called over her shoulder to her cousin. "Tell Greta to be ready to kick the engines in the guts. We may need to run this blockade, and if they attack we're going to give each and every one of these ships something to remember us by."

She turned back to Ferguson, "We're not starting this war. We're going to let them make their move first." Something else occurred to her. "But we should do something about our guests."

Last night, they had announced to their old-timer friends that the _Enterprise_ was going home, and not waiting for Vinicius. Serapion, Ptolemy, and Merianis were all given the opportunity to disembark and stay in Cartago Nova. They were even offered money to pay their passages home to Alexandria. But each, for different reasons, elected to remain on the _Enterprise_. Each wanted to see New Atlantis, and would dare the journey on the Encircling Ocean.

And each now, when told they could avoid the threatened battle with a trip direct to New Atlantis, elected to remain on the _Enterprise_. All their reasons varied, but they seemed good to them. Serapion would have died rather than appear a coward in Lesley Urquhart's eyes; Merianis felt it her duty to assist Gretchen with possible casualties; and Claudius Ptolemy, gazing dreamily at the fabled Pillars of Hercules, was unwilling to miss a moment of his observations. He might be of no use in a fight, he admitted to himself, but he was a witness to history, and must see and record everything.

The leader's ship drew up alongside, shorter and lower than the _Enterprise_, but swarming with soldiers. They had the unmistakable air of men preparing for battle. A pair of hooks were thrown from the Roman, and the two ships eased together.

"Roll out the red carpet," Captain Urquhart said with a smile. At her command, a rope ladder was dropped to the lower deck of the Roman vessel. There was a moment of silence, broken by the beat of the waves against the sides of the ships, and the low murmur from both crews. She looked down at the Roman who had hailed her. He looked back up, admiring and predatory. His gaze shifted to the men in red lining the rails, holding strange objects. They were not swords, or spears, or bows. They were like nothing he had seen before, but they could not be weapons.He paused, and licked his lips.

She decided to help him along. "Wasn't there something you wanted to give me?"

"Yes," said the Roman, climbing up the ladder. He reached the top, and pulled his sword at the same moment. "Now!" he screamed to his men.

Instantly, the Romans threw their own rope ladders over the rail. A few leaped up on the ropes to climb to the Enterprise's deck.

"Fire!" roared Ferguson, and an answering roar of gunfire blazed out. The weapons swept the low deck of the Roman ship like scythes in a wheat field. The shock from the noise was so great that some Romans stopped in their tracks, making them even easier targets.

Another ship was pulling up on the port side. Bordon, with the mortar crew, was ready. With the characteristic thunder, a shell was lobbed at the enemy. It was not perfectly sighted, and exploded at the bow, shearing off the long, iron-shod ram. The Romans screamed, and below-decks, the chained galley slaves screamed even louder. The second shell, fired seconds later, landed amidships. The trireme splintered, and sank with appalling dispatch.

The commander of the flotilla, Gaius Ulpius Naso by name, had headed straight to Lesley Urquhart. Not to kill her, but to capture her if at all possible. Vinicius coveted the _Enterprise_, as he coveted orichalcum. A surprise attack, with no town to witness—a brief struggle with the great, unarmed ship, and the sailing power of the Atlanti would be his. Ulpius, in fact, was ordered to capture as many of the Atlanti as he could, and had been promised vast rewards. Vinicius had told him he had secret orders from the Emperor himself, and Ulpius was honored to be part of the attempt.

So Ulpius, stumbling at the first shock of a noise like thunder, had run at the beautiful, serene woman in her strange, magnificent coat of dark blue and gold, exquisite lace at the wrists and throat. She saw him coming, and extended her arm in a swift, graceful motion. Ulpius did not see the device in her hand.

But he felt it, briefly, a bolt of lightning like fire from heaven, as the stun gun lifted him from his feet. He saw her face, still calm and lovely, looking away from him toward the battle, as he lost consciousness.

The fight raged on. Sergeant McKenzie, in charge of the grenade launcher, waited for the next ship to starboard to edge closer before taking a shot at them. Watching them through his sights, he called out cheerfully, "Have a taste of this, you buggers!" And fired.

That ship had heard the noise, but could not make out what was happening on the deck of their neighbor. A few saw men falling, but it was unclear why. They pulled up, trying to look more closely, when they heard a rushing noise. Whirling about to find the source of the sound, they saw nothing, but there was a thump, and a roar, and then a sheet of white flame. It consumed the forward crew and licked toward the mast. Bewildered, the rest of the crew rushed to put out the fire. Fruitlessly. This fire was fierce and unquenchable. There was another _whoosh_ and thump, and yet another fire was blazing. The captain, trying to contain the hysteria, ordered the attack broken off, and the rowers were lashed to highest speed, as the ship struggled to reach the Iberian shore. The fire spread, and the captain, pushed to the edge of the stern, finally leaped into the water, joining the crew who could escape. The ship drifted, burning to the waterline, and then disappeared beneath the surface.

Ferguson led a boarding party onto the first ship. The deck crew and the soldiers were dead or injured. Below was the non-com in charge of the rowers, and he rushed them when Ferguson and two Marines came below. He was shot down instantly. The naked rowers, chained to their oars, could only cry for mercy.

"Silence!" Ferguson bellowed in Latin. "No one's going to kill you if you'll only be quiet!"

He climbed the ladder back to the fighting deck. The trireme was theirs, if they wanted it, or could think of anything they could use it for. First they had to settle the rest of the attackers. He could see the next ship over in flames. _They're no danger to us now._ Briefly, he spoke to the Marine behind him. "Stay on board here, and secure the ship. Disarm the wounded." He climbed back to the deck of the _Enterprise._ He saw McKenzie, and nodded. "Well done, Sergeant!" McKenzie grinned back, and slapped his weapon affectionately.

The closest attacker on the portside was only splinters floating on the water now. The mortar crew was taking aim at the ship beyond it, and had missed the first shot by a good ten yards. Bordon's voice was full of rebuke, which changed to cool praise with the next round. The ship was crippled by a hole that ripped through the deck, straight down into the ship to the hull. It was limping, taking on water rapidly, and was abandoned within minutes.

The only ship remaining was the one farthest to starboard. It had seen the fiery fate of its neighbor, and had broken off the attack. Oars rising and falling with incredible speed, it was running away, and was already out of range for the grenade launcher.

_Should I let them get away? _The Captain considered the situation._ No._ The folly of attacking the _Enterprise_ must be perfectly clear. "Missile crew!" she commanded. A crash, a trail of smoke, and an answering explosion. The distant ship was veiled in yet more smoke. Another missile was launched in the tracks of the first. The trireme appeared to disintegrate, pieces flying through the air, and a split-second later, they heard the explosion that had caused it.

"So—" she drawled.. "I think we're done here."

Ferguson snorted a grim laugh. It was a scene of devastation. The first trireme, still lashed to the side of the Enterprise, was awash with blood. Gretchen and her trembling assistant were climbing down there, ready to treat the wounded. He wondered briefly if he should prevent it, and decided that would be wrong. The Romans might toss enemy wounded over the side, but his own people were better than that. But the Romans might not understand it. "You there!" he shouted to Danny Dalton. "Get down there and stay with the doctor! Make sure none of the enemy try to knife her while she's saving their worthless hides!" He turned to Lesley Urquhart, who was making her own assessment. "It seems we have a prize ship, Captain."

"Yes," she frowned. "I'm not sure what to do about that. We could just run it over to shore, unchain the slaves, and then sink it." She tried not to think about the galley slaves on the other ships. It was ugly, but unavoidable. They were the human engines of the enemy ships, and had been destroyed with them. At least these few on the captured ship would survive.

Ferguson was in good spirits. "I'll go through the captain's cabin and rout out any papers first. And --we could bring it back to New Atlantis. It would cause quite a stir!"

"I'm not sure it could manage the journey, and I'd hate to risk any of my own people on it. Still—retrofitted with an engine and better sails, it might do for a ferry around the big island—" She looked down, and noticed the unconscious Roman. "Someone—you!" she said to an overawed Serapion, who was dazed at the carnage wreaked in only a few minutes. Seeing his shock, her voice softened. "Take this man below! Bind him, guard him, and see that he doesn't escape and doesn't die! We'll want a long talk with him." The Alexandrian, glad to be entrusted with something that was not beyond his understanding, hurried to obey.

"And about the slaves," Ferguson suggested, "why don't offer them a chance of coming with us? We could use more laborers." He had been concerned about the comparative lack of unskilled labor on New Atlantis for some time. Their soldiers had been given land, but had no time to work it. Ploughmen, fruitpickers: all sorts of help was needed.

"All right. Go below and make the offer. But it has to be voluntary. And some of them might be very undesirable."

In the end, most of the sixty-odd slaves wanted to take their chances in the hills around Gibraltar. Some eleven men, however, perhaps wiser or more resigned to servitude than their fellows, expressed a desire to leave with the Atlanti. As one whispered persuasively to a younger oar-mate, "We would be rounded up within a week, and back to the oars in two. At least the Atlanti do not use galleys! And they _are_ gods, after all. Perhaps they will be good ones."

-----

Shortly thereafter, Tavington received the report of the battle from his officers. Michael Flynn, Drew Markham, and the rest of the helicopter task force crowded into the airless little radio hut to listen to the tale. No Atlantean casualties, other than some bruises from careless use of weapons, and one shallow slash from a wounded Roman temporarily playing dead.

On the other side, four Roman triremes sunk, one captured. They had captured the commander, and fifty-odd Roman soldiers and sailors. Eighteen of them were severely wounded. Eleven galley slaves had volunteered to serve them.

He would gate a reinforcement party to the _Enterprise._ Gretchen needed help, first of all, and the prisoners needed to be interrogated. For the most part, the prisoners, other than their commander, could then be set ashore. They were no threat to them, and Tavington _wanted _Vinicius to know how outclassed he was. It might prevent future wasteful assaults. But Vinicius might send a high-colored report of the affair to Rome, and besides, he might not have learned the right lessons from it.

He thought aloud. "So Vinicius wouldn't talk to Pattie. Who _would_ he have to talk to?"

Inspiration struck. "This calls for my dress uniform."

"Sir?" Markham said in alarm.

"I shall leave you in charge once more, Lieutenant. I'm off to Rome."

It all seemed clear to Tavington. He would gate to the Atlantean residence in Rome, emerge, and present himself for an audience with the Emperor. The other men murmured their concern. Markham stood between him and the door.

"Colonel. Stop. You have no proof, sir. Why would they believe you?"

Tavington very nearly struck him. Then he considered slapping his own forehead. _Why indeed?_ He and Mark had not taken cameras, which now struck him as a mistake. They had not been necessary for their own reconnaissance, but such pictures would have been—well—_interesting_ to the Romans. Not necessarily convincing, as the Roman understanding of photography was nonexistent. They would simply have been pictures of ships in a harbor.

Markham was still in his way, damn his impudence. Tavington scowled, recognizing the problem, and then said, "They'll believe their own eyes. I'll offer to take them there. It's worth breaching our security. If the Romans lose a legion, they won't be particularly forgiving, even if we are only defending ourselves."

Michael interposed calmly, "You need to bring it before the Committee, Will. And if you go to Rome you can't go alone."

Tavington took a breath, and then stopped, thinking it through. Markham continued earnestly. "It needs to be a proper delegation. I know the Committee will agree."

The Committee did agree. An emergency meeting gave Tavington their accord, and he headed for the Laboratory, accompanied by Mark, and the anxious Lysis. They were witnesses to the fleet buildup as much as he. In addition, Alan was called back from the _Enterprise,_ as one who had seen the governor's letter of denial and the subsequent battle. After more of Markham's pleas, Tavington relented and decided to take him as well. His only concern was the abiding dislike between his officer and the doctor. Markham, however, assured him that that would not be an issue. A gate technician and a radio operator were included to get the devices in the house in operation. Markham picked five of their best remaining men to accompany them, and they all gated through to the comfortable house on the Esquiline Hill set aside for their use.

-----

"Not here?"

"No, Lord Oilion," the palace functionary repeated patiently. "The Emperor has gone to his villa for the month. It is his custom at this time of the year."

"Is there anyone we can see about a matter of urgency?"

The man answered, "Marcus Aurelius Caesar has not yet left to join the Imperial family, but he is extremely busy settling affairs before his departure."

Tavington glared at him. Sharply, he said, "Then inform Caesar that it is vital that we speak to him as soon as possible. We will wait."

Markham caught his eye. Tavington shrugged, and reached into his pocket for a heavy gold ring, set with a large and sparkling synthetic ruby. It was always useful to have a handful of such trinkets. The Roman's eyes were drawn by the jewel, watching Tavington as he played with it, tossing it carelessly from hand to hand.

Tavington smiled. "Take it," he said, pressing into the man's hand. "Take it as a token of the seriousness of our mission. We need to see Marcus Aurelius _as soon as possible_. And I think you will find he is interested in seeing us."

The man nodded and bustled off, slipping the treasure inside his tunic. Tavington's contemptuous expression brought a grin to Mark's face.

"People are the same all over."

"Unfortunately."

They did not have long to wait. Within less than an hour, Tavington, Mark, Alan, Markham, and Lysis were ushered into—not a grand reception room—but a plainly furnished study. This time Marcus Aurelius had really done them honor. He had admitted them into his sanctuary.

He greeted them with obvious interest and pleasure, asking them about their journey, and making a point of being introduced to those of the party he did not know. Mark Magliore, as an Atlantean physician, particularly interested him, and he expressed hope that his stay in Rome would be long.

Mark thanked him, but deferred to Tavington, who said plainly, "Unhappily, Caesar, it is not possible. We are here because of alarming intelligence that concerns Governor Vinicius in Iberia."

Surprised, Marcus Aurelius frowned. He said, "What intelligence?"

"He is gathering a fleet to attack New Atlantis." There seemed no point in softening it.

There was a keen look, which Tavington met unflinchingly. "You have proof of this?"

"Caesar, we have seen it. Doctor Magliore, Lysis, and I were in Gades—two days ago."

A silence. "That is not possible."

"It is possible for us. We were in Gades, we saw the great fleet assembled, saw the 31st legion preparing to leave with it, and captured two Romans who told us about the Governor's plans. He is obsessed with obtaining orichalcum, despite that fact that it does not exist, and despite the fact that his plan has no hope of success."

The Roman was still struggling with the sequence of events. "You were in Gades, and arrived here within two days. Where is your ship?"

"The _Enterprise_ was in Cartago Nova, where Major Ferguson was told to wait for Vinicius. The Governor did not meet them but denied by letter that the fleet exists, and insisted that the port of Gades is closed due to sickness. We received word of this, and went to Gades ourselves where we found no sickness, but an invasion force."

He looked steadily into Marcus Aurelius skeptical grey eyes. "This morning, Ferguson notified us that the Enterprise was attacked by a squadron of five triremes at the Pillars of Hercules. The Enterprise repulsed its attackers, and is headed home to New Atlantis as we speak. Alan here was present during the battle and can give you a full account. We could destroy the rest of Vinicius' fleet—and must, if he attempts to invade New Atlantis. But we have no desire to do this. We wish to live in peace with Rome. Vinicius threatens war. We believe that he may be acting alone, but we must know if he had the Emperor's leave to attack us."

"Sit," said Marcus Aurelius, who went to the chair behind the writing desk and sat down himself. Tavington admired his poise. This was a man who had trained himself to show little emotion in public, but he was being sorely tested now. The Roman spoke quietly to the secretary, who was hovering in bewilderment behind him. "Have Kratistos fetch us some wine and bread. Say nothing to anyone else of this." His servant hurried to the door, and Marcus Aurelius sat in thought. After a little longer, he said calmly, "Tell me everything, from the beginning."

Tavington paused, looked briefly at Alan, at Mark, and at Markham, and paused amusedly at Lysis' state of near terminal awe, and took the plunge. He had thought before of what to say, and what not to say, and decided to keep it as simple as possible for now. As he spoke, he was irresistibly reminded of the fictional John Carter of Mars.

"We come from a different world. As it must be clear to you, we have abilities unknown to your own. We can travel instantly from place to place, we can send and receive message great distances, and have machines and weapons of tremendous power. We settled in New Atlantis only a few years ago, and have been seeking to establish ourselves in a new land. We feel we have much to offer Rome--- if it will accept our gifts."

"By gifts," said Aurelius, now more philosopher than Caesar, "I take it you do not mean trifles such as theobroma and reticulata."

Tavington smiled wryly. "They are trifles, as you say. But they are symbols of our knowledge and of our resources. The _Enterprise_ you have seen. Could any shipbuilder known to you have created it?"

"Are you," the Roman hazarded, "claiming to be gods?"

A little surprised, Tavington heard Markham's faint snort. He ignored it, maintaining his own poise, and replied firmly. "No. While we are aware that your world and ours defines divinity somewhat differently, we do not claim to be anything but other human beings. But we are human beings with great power. If your fleet attacks us, it will be destroyed, but that in turn would destroy our chances of productive exchange with your Empire."

"How do you propose to prove your accusations against Vinicius?"

Tavington's lips curved in a smile of repressed excitement. "Come with us, and we will show you."

Marcus Aurelius felt an answering thrill. He was a young man, after all, and here was a chance at an extraordinary adventure. "You will take me to Atlantis?" Then disappointing reality obtruded. "I cannot leave. I must head south to meet my family in two days."

"You would be back in time." Tavington felt the excitement growing. "You can spend a few hours with us, and return to Rome."

"_That is possible_?"

A slave at the doorway had appeared with a tray of goblets and a chased gold pitcher of wine. Another slaves carried a tray with a basket of many kinds of bread. At their Caesar's nod, the two began quietly serving their master and his guests. Discreetly, conversation stopped while they remained in the room.

At their host's urging, Tavington and his party tasted the Falernian offered. It was excellent. Not Atlantean-style wine, but a solid, warming red wine with a heady fragrance. The men drank in silent appreciation, before their conversation resumed.

"Yes, Caesar. It is possible. You may bring companions if you like, and if you feel it necessary. But come with us to the house that the Emperor gave us, and you can go with us through the gate directly to Atlantis."

About the location in the Palace that was on record as an alternate gate, Tavington said nothing. There were some resources that must remain secret.

He watched the various emotions crossing the young Caesar's face. He was tempted. He was thinking of his duty, about whether he could trust these strangers, about whether he was being played for a fool.

Finally, he said, "If what you tell me is true, then you must wish it to remain secret. Yet you are confiding in me."

"We believe you to be a man of honor. And it was always our wish to let you know this at the right time. That time has come earlier than we had planned."

"You must admit that I must consider the idea that you mean to take me hostage." Mark and Alan looked appalled. Markham simply looked interested.

Tavington pointed out, "While that might have been an option, it would be a foolish one. It might give us a momentary advantage, but would ultimately poison our relations with the Empire. No, Caesar. You need fear nothing from us, as long as you accompany us in good faith."

Marcus Aurelius set down his goblet, and got to his feet with an air of decision. Addressing the secretary, said, "Summon Appius Lucretius—and Demochares." He turned to Tavington with a slight smile. "A captain of the Praetorian Guard of proven loyalty; and my former tutor, an excellent and learned man. Do I need any else for this journey?"

"No, Caesar," Alan told him. "It is a simple matter. Our weather is warm and pleasant and it is not raining today. However, be aware that it will be earlier in the morning when we arrive in New Atlantis."

"Why?"

Alan gave him a brief discourse on time zones and the consequences of traveling a great distance east to west in a short period of time. The Roman was intrigued, but followed the mathematics of it easily enough.

"In fact," he remarked thoughtfully, "it would be an additional proof of the truth of your words. The sun would appear to be lower in the sky."

"That is so, Caesar."

Within minutes, Demochares, a scholarly looking Greek of middle-age appeared. The Atlanti had met him before, and he and Alan exchanged courtesies. With him was a hard-bitten looking soldierly man about Tavington's age, with a broken nose and keen black eyes. He and Tavington examined one another warily, and his eyes then shifted to Markham's tall and muscular figure, considering the odds.

"My friends," Marcus Aurelius announced mildly, "I must ask you to accompany me on an unusual venture. These Atlanti propose to take me to their island by means of their strange powers. I am told we can be there in a short time. Is that not so?"

Tavington explained, "At our house, you will see a blue light. We will all step into it, and will almost immediately be in New Atlantis."

Appius Lucretius drew incredulous breath and objections poured forth. His commander silenced him.

"I will do this, Appius. I do not order you to accompany me, but I ask it of you as a friend."

"You know I would die for you, Caesar."

"Not today, I hope." He turned to Tavington. "And now, let us depart for this house, this gate, and this New World of yours."

-----

Tavington sent a pair of his soldiers ahead of them to radio Atlantis. It would hardly do to have the renowned Marcus Aurelius arrive in the cramped quarters of the retrieval room in the Laboratory. Instead, he would be greeted properly, and see their beautiful little town in its most becoming guise.

By the time they had reached the house on the Esquiline, a guard was waiting to present arms, and welcome their guest with due ceremony. The Romans' eyes flicked around the atrium, taking in the unfamiliar machines and their blinking lights. They were shown where the gate would open: in the tablinium—the study off the atrium, which faced into the enclosed peristyle garden.

Tavington spoke into the radio. "We are here. Are you ready to receive us?"

Enesco, the senior radioman, replied. "We're good to go, Colonel. Even the schoolchildren are out in force to sing a song for our guest. Just say the word."

Tavington laughed slightly. "Well then, _'Open, Sesame!'_"

A moment later, a radiant blue dot of light blazed into a glowing oblong . Marcus Aurelius could not control a gasp of delight, and looked at it from the front, and then from the back. Demochares rattled a barrage of questions in Greek at Alan, who tried to calm him. The Praetorian simply looked tense. Markham caught his eye and gave him a superior smirk.

Tavington, looking at it from the Romans' point of view, felt the awe he had first experienced when faced with this technology. A paper-thin shape, about seven feet tall and four feet wide, blue as the sky, appearing from nowhere, with nothing behind it to make it comprehensible.

Marcus Aurelius took a deep breath. "Do you mean that if I walk into this blue shape I will be transported across land and sea to your island?"

"Exactly, Caesar. You will experience cold and darkness for a fleeting moment, and then you will be in the central square of our chief town."

It appeared that Appius Lucretius might explode. His objections were overridden by the curiosity of his commander and his commander's tutor.

Finally, Alan proposed, "Look here. Why don't Demochares and I go on through first? He can see how it works, and that there's no danger. We'll come back and he can report to Caesar that it's all right."

_Sensible man_, approved Tavington. He looked at Marcus Aurelius for his opinion.

"Yes, that sounds like a rational proceeding."

Lucretius objected, "I should go, Caesar! If there is danger---"

Demochares serenely observed, "—If there is danger, you should be at Caesar's side. This adventure calls not for a soldier, but a philosopher." He asked Alan, "We simply walk into the light? It sounds like something proposed by Socrates, long ago. Surely, that cannot be so terrible."

"No," Alan assured him. Unbending a great deal, for him, he linked arms with the Greek. Rather sarcastically, he said in aside to Tavington, "And tell Enesco it's only us, so I don't have to listen twice to those wretched children singing."

They were back in two minutes. The Greek was visibly shaking with joy, as he told his master what he had seen. Meaningfully, he related that he had seen "a great statue of their goddess—a huge fountain, with water pouring from her hands."

_The coin!_ Marcus Aurelius remembered. "I shall go."

Fearlessly, he strode forward, hardly giving the radioman time to announce his arrival. Lucretius hurried to protect him.

The cold and dark were dreadful; like some ancient song of the Underworld. And yet they lasted but a moment, and they were in the sun again, in a pleasant warm breeze, in the midst of a wide, attractively paved, and extraordinarily _clean_ forum, surrounded by large, strange buildings, ringed by statues and great concrete containers of flowers. He saw the immense statue of their sea goddess, her hands outstretched as if giving them power over the waters. A crowd had gathered to welcome him, standing in front of a handsome building in a familiar style, much like any Roman public structure.

A group of well-dressed children burst into song at his appearance, accompanied by a consort of exotic musical instruments. He was grateful for it. The time spent listening to them gave him a chance to compose himself, as a philosopher should. He could hear the others arriving behind him, and was gently urged to move forward to make room for them. The Atlantean officer Oilion was at his side, smiling, and offering to escort him to the waiting party. He recognized some of them, including the attractive Diana, with whom his wife and mother-in-law had been so delighted.

It all became quite clear. He turned to the Atlantean.

"_You_ are Tabitus, are you not?"

The tall Atlantean, humor in his bright blue eyes, assented. "I am Colonel William Tavington. Welcome to New Atlantis."

-----

The **_next_** chapter will be **The Voice From the Sky.** An accommodation is reached, and Vinicius' plans are challenged.


	25. Tavington's Atlantis, part 8

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination.

_Tavington and his forces prepare for an invading Roman fleet._

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 8 **

**A Voice from the Sky: August, 150 A.D. **

Marcus Aurelius was not a savage, to be deceived by bright, shiny objects. Perhaps it was his intelligence and his high level of education that brought home to him most forcibly how very powerful and advanced the Atlanti actually were. There were not many of them: he had guessed as much. Their city, though beautiful and surpassingly rich, was small. However these people had come from another world, not many _had_ actually come.

Nonetheless, it was a remarkable place, and he surmised that he was seeing only the surface. The powers that allowed them to travel from one place to another and to speak to each other from great distances were awe-inspiring. He was not a superstitious man, though punctilious in his reverence for Rome's ancient gods. Because he was not superstitious, he began to grasp that the powers of the Atlanti were not magical, but were the fruits of philosophic study. That was actually more impressive to him than magic might have been. What man had done, man could do, and the thought of bringing such wonders to enrich and beautify the Empire was intoxicating.

With the difficulties arising from their grievances with Marcus Vinicius, there was no time to inspect the city as he would like. Prince Tabitus pointed out the Library, the Auditorium where the citizens took counsel together, the School where all the children were educated regardless of station, the Museum. He tried not to dally, for the Prince of Atlantis was concerned about the attack on his ship. The Lady Diana threw him a sympathetic glance, perhaps understanding him. Perhaps later there would be time to see this wonderful place at his leisure.

An excellent thought occurred to him: Perhaps the Atlanti would allow some philosophers to study at their Library and Museum. His dear Demochares was already looking dazed and happy. That might be a point of negotiation.

Their Capitol was attractive, but small—hardly bigger than a country villa. Inside, however, it was lavishly decorated and furnished, and he and his party were shown into a reception hall with great courtesy. It was all very informal, which was for the best: It would have been an affront to his _dignitas_ as Caesar to have been received by a enthroned foreign potentate. Instead, Tabitus made all easy between them, talking as one man to another.

He was saying, "If you like, Caesar, you can question the men themselves. When in Gades, we were set upon by some soldiers, eager to recruit more rowers for the galleys. In leaving hastily, we inadvertently brought two of them along. They have not been harmed, but we did hear them talking together, and that is what made us certain the Vinicius meant to attack."

An Atlantean soldier approached and whispered a message to the Prince. Tabitus nodded, and continued to address him, "I have just been informed that some of your wounded have arrived in Atlantis. They have been taken to our hospital—our place for medical treatment. Among them is the commander of the ships that attacked the _Enterprise_. The hospital is in the same building where the other two soldiers are being held. When you wish, we can go there."

"It is generous of you to treat our wounded."

"It is our custom, when possible."

"Before I question the soldiers, I would like to hear the entire tale of Vinicius, Verguso, and what you saw in Gades."

It took some time to hear the various portions of the story: the letter to Verguso, declaring Gades closed due to sickness; the journey by means of the blue light to the city, and the adventures of Tabitus, the physician Marcus, and the freeman Lysis there. The freedman was timid and stammering, but seemed honest. The subsequent letter from Vinicius, denying the evidence of the very eyes of the Atlanti; and the tale of the battle related by the philosopher Alan, who had seen it.

The philosopher stated that the _Enterprise_ had, single-handed, defeated five triremes. While he was reluctant to explain this in detail, a nod from the Prince reassured him, and he gave a frightful narrative of death and fire. The Atlanti had apparently surpassed even the great Archimedes in their war machines. This, too, must be investigated.

Tabitus concluded the story. "As you have heard, we did not initiate the fight, but fought to defend ourselves. You must understand that we could do no less. We did not come to this place to seek war with Rome, but we will never permit a hostile force to set foot on our islands, nor to harass our people."

The Lady Diana had been present throughout the interview; since apparently the Atlanti did not distinguish between men and women, as far he could understand it. She served them all Atlantean wine with her own hands, and even Lucretius settled down a little under her kind smile.

The proprieties observed, Tabitus then led him through the building, out the back, and through some pleasure gardens. Further on, he could see a wide field, and more scarlet-clad Atlantean soldiers drilling. The buildings there looked as fine as anything in the city. Even common soldiers' barracks were luxurious by Roman standards. One would think it would weaken their fiber, but a glance at Tabitus himself did not reveal any weakness in the man.

The Roman looked about him, and was alerted by Demochares' gasp of awe. His tutor was looking to the left. Beyond yet more gardens was a huge building that caught the sun. He himself could not contain his wonder.

Demochares asked eagerly, "It is made of glass?"

"Yes," Tabitus answered, smiling oddly, "it is a greenhouse, used to grow very tender plants from all over the world. One of our philosophers is a great botanical authority, and she constantly amazes us all. The trees that produce theobroma are there. If you have time, Caesar, you might find it of interest."

"Indeed."

They were moving toward a huge structure that looked like no building the Romans had seen before. It had few windows, but was covered in shiny black tiles. It resembled nothing so much as a diagram of Euclid's gone mad.

"The Laboratory," Tabitus explained.

Marcus Aurelius considered. _A place of work? What kind of work? _

There was a guard at the entrance, standing before metal doors. Inside the air smelt strange, and they were surrounded by more metal—and great, unthinkably wide expanses of glass. _How on earth do they make such glass? _They passed down a central hall, and saw mysterious doors marked even more mysteriously. Occasionally, some one would emerge and nod politely as their party passed—strange men and women in sleeved coats of white.

"Scientists," said Tabitus. "That is our word for philosophers who study nature, matter, and its laws." He paused before another metal door, marked clearly in Roman letters, "_Elevator."_

"Perhaps not today," he said, and led them instead to a concrete and metal staircase. They descended a long way. It was rather nerve-wracking. Demochares was overwhelmed, and Lucretius on the edge. He himself was wondering if he had made a dreadful mistake, when they reached yet another door, and Tabitus pushed it open.

There were soldiers in the room, and they greeted their prince respectfully, standing at admirable attention. But the Caesar's attention was immediately drawn to another expanse of glass. Behind it, in a room fitted with cots, were two Roman legionaries, looking decidedly glum. The remains of a meal were on a metal table in the room.

"The decurion Proculo, and Galbinius," Tabitus indicated with a smile. "They have not enjoyed their visit, but as you see, they are unhurt."

"I wish to speak with them," Marcus Aurelius said firmly. "Permit the door to be opened, if you please."

Tabitus signed to a soldier, who pressed a button, which made a green light flicker. The door swung open, and the two Romans stood, watching the door warily.

It was a tedious interview. The soldiers immediately responded to Lucretius, who knew how to handle them. They were fairly typical specimens of their sort: ignorant, pugnacious, and both suspicious and credulous. At the moment they were also frightened, and trying to hide it. It did not take long to convince the men that they were indeed Roman officers (for Aurelius thought that claiming to be Caesar, under the circumstances, would only convince the men that he was a liar); and then they were besieged with pleas to rescue them from this terrible place.

The walls glowed with white light, though there was no fire. The water from the walls could get hot enough to scald a man's skin right off. No one had tortured them, true, but they reckoned they were being softened up for it. The people here had even fixed Galbinius' nose. What did they want to do that for? Probably so he would be healthier when they put him to death—probably in their arena. Well, they were ready to die like Romans and soldiers, but couldn't the gentlemen find a way to get them out of here?

Eventually the story of the scuffle in Gades was drawn from them. A pair of big barbarian strangers, and their sniveling weasel of a slave, had tricked them into an alley with promises of wine, and then had somehow carried them off to this place. They had figured it out though. They must be more of the Atlanti that Governor Vinicius was all in a fever about. That lot had gold and jewels, and food of the gods, and orichalcum, which was red and supposed to be better than gold, but Proculo couldn't quite make out how that was possible. They had beautiful women, too. The fleet was going to attack the Atlanti and conquer them for the Emperor, and then all of those good things would be theirs.

They were brutes, but innocent brutes, Marcus Aurelius decided. Putting their stories together with those of the Atlanti, it was becoming horribly evident that Vinicius had exceeded his authority. He had not told the Prince of the Atlanti (for it was a state secret and none of his affair), that the Emperor _had_ given Vinicius his approval to assemble an expedition to Atlantis. A _diplomatic_ mission, with a deep-bottomed trading ship and a trireme as protective escort. Antoninus saw nothing wrong with exploring the Encircling Ocean and finding out where the Atlanti were—and Marcus Aurelius had been in perfect accord. However, they had certainly not given their imprimatur to a lunatic exploit like this: risking an entire legion and the western fleet in dangerous seas to attempt a conquest of a land whose exact location no one knew.

He did not allow his thoughts to show, but he had more than enough to reflect upon. _Vinicius will be lucky if he's allowed to fall on his sword. He's as much as helped himself to public funds, wasting Imperial resources like this._ _Not only_ t_he entire officer corps of the 31st, but the Iberian bureaucracy may have to be purged or reassigned._ _The cursed madman. _

Briefly, he asked the Atlantean, "You will allow them to return?"

"Oh, certainly. We have no further use for them. If you wish, we can send them back to Gades now—or to Rome."

"Not now," Marcus Aurelius said. "But after all of this with Vinicius is resolved, then it would be a great favor if you would let them go in peace."

"Very well. Then, would you now wish to see the Roman wounded?" The wounded were being cared for in an even stranger place. It was disturbing and rather horrible to see them lying helpless, their bodies pierced with thick threads of strange materials. The physicians moved among them, plainly caring for them in a conscientious way, but the things they were doing were distressing to watch.

One of the physicians spoke to Marcus, who translated for the Romans. "We lost two of your men. They were just too badly wounded. The other sixteen should recover, in time. The officer is resting in a nearby room. He had a bad shock, but should be all right eventually. I'm told you can speak to him already."

In a plain room, in a strangely made bed with white linen, Vinicius' legate Gaius Ulpius Naso was lying in restraints. He had not recovered his nerve since the attack. He had attempted to lay hands upon the fair Uccarte, and had been struck down for it, like many another hapless mortal in ancient myth. At least she had not turned him into a beast, but had just blasted him with lightning. He was among gods, he did not doubt it for an instant. They were not at all what he had imagined, but they were certainly all-powerful. They might look like normal human beings, but gods usually looked that way, except when they were pretending to be animals themselves.

The door opened, and he trembled, wondering what humiliating and incomprehensible ordeal he would next endure. Two of the gods who entered appeared to be Roman, but Ulpius was not about to be tricked so easily. Then he looked again, and realized that they had taken the shape of men he had seen: the Praetorian Appius Lucretius, and Caesar Marcus Aurelius. They did not appear to be pleased with him.

"Spare me, divinities!" he cried.

"Shut up," snapped the god who looked like Lucretius, "Caesar has questions for you, so pull yourself together and stop your whining."

More quietly, the god who looked like Caesar said, "Answer honestly, and I will do what I can to help you. Do not attempt to deceive me."

"No, Lord! I will tell you everything!"

And with judicious prodding, he did: the Emperor's secret orders revealed to him; the commission from Vinicius; the plot to waylay the Great Iron Ship; his own impiety in attempting to use violence with a goddess (for which he expressed his profoundest remorse); his subsequent punishment; and his fate here, naked and strapped down helplessly in this strange place like Prometheus on his rock, while the gods subjected him to strange proceedings, all the while speaking softly and soothingly. He could bear no more. Let them slay him, but let it be over.

"We are wasting time," said the god-Caesar, a touch impatiently. "When did Vinicius plan to set forth for Atlantis?"

"Lord," replied Ulpius, "He has already done so. He would have left four days ago. It was my mission to stop the Iron Ship, and prevent it from assisting the Atlanti. I have failed, " he whispered.

"Yes, you have," agreed god-Lucretius, without much sympathy. "You and your precious Governor have really done yourselves proud."

"Certainly," said god-Caesar with deceptive mildness, "your ill-advised venture has created some undesirable complications. The fleet is already at sea, you say?"

It was so. Marcus Aurelius considered the matter. As far as he could see, even with the amazing powers of the Atlanti, there was no way he could turn the fleet back toward Gades. Even if he appeared in person on the deck of Vinicius' flagship, most of the soldiers would not recognize him, and Vinicius might simply have him killed. His glance slid over to Tabitus, who was talking quietly with the physicians. Perhaps the Atlanti could terrify the fleet into retreat, but Romans were no cowards, and it was likely that there would be heavy casualties in any case. It was a disaster, and he must use all his wits to salvage what he could for Rome.

"Is there any way we could travel to the fleet to dissuade Vinicius?"

Reluctantly, Tavington replied in the negative. He hated admitted any limitation; but of course, not knowing the current position of the fleet, there was no way to gate to them. "We are on the watch, Caesar, and if the fleet appears, we will attempt to turn them back. It is very possible that they will never reach us. Roman ships are ill-designed for ocean sailing. If a storm were to overtake them, as is only too likely----"

There it was, thought Marcus Aurelius with relief. There was the way to save face, to pretend that this dreadful situation had not happened, to avoid open conflict with these people from whom he hoped for so much.

He remarked, "Indeed, it is very likely that such a misfortune _will _occur. If the fleet were not to return, it would seem evident that that reckless man lost it to storms or high seas. Without proof, we could hardly blame the Atlanti."

Tavington smiled tightly, understanding him. He had just been given carte-blanche to destroy Vinicius' Armada. As long as Rome was not humiliated by a public defeat, they could still maintain profitable relations. So a number of things might happen: Vinicius' fleet might turn back without ever finding them; or be swamped and lost at sea. They might be overawed and turn back without engaging, in which case everyone could claim it had been simply a mission of exploration. The final possibility was that, once engaged, the fleet would be destroyed, and no one would survive or be permitted to return, at the least, to tell the tale of Roman defeat.

"And the attack at the Pillars of Hercules?" There was little chance of concealing _that. _

"A most regrettable and scandalous affair. Vinicius has behaved as little more than a pirate. If he survives his voyage, he will be punished as a pirate. Gaius Ulpius, I believe, was duped by a greedy superior. He will be stripped of his office, and exiled, at the very least."

Now was the time to make what he could of the affair. "Of course, innocent Roman lives were lost by the actions of the _Enterprise_, however understandable. Perhaps if our two peoples understood one another better, such misfortunes could be avoided in future."

"Perhaps," Tabitus replied warily.

Marcus Aurelius decided to add another hour to this visit to Atlantis. There could be no better use for his time. He would see the house of glass, and the collection of rare plants. It would please Demochares, certainly, who might wish to prolong his stay here. The Atlanti, no doubt, had secrets they would share with no one—most especially regarding their dreadful weapons and their powers of navigation—but they would not begrudge a scholar the sight of flowers, nor Caesar a visit to their magnificent School and Library. And for now, that would be enough.

-----

It was a routine flight the following morning, but Ashley DeJong was always happy for a chance to be airborne. She loved her posting on Numenor, and had a comfortable understanding with Bill Higgins, the hangar chief. People bustled in Atlantis. She was glad that there were no tell-tale signs of bustle yet in Numenor. She got in some flying, helped Bill maintain the hangar and runway, slept late, and had all the terrific sex a girl could ask for. No bustle, though. Not for her.

The patrols had changed things, though. Now that Michael Flynn had seen to it that they would have high-octane fuel for the foreseeable future, she had another excuse to fly. It did, however, mean getting up earlier.

The Colonel had met with them, and informed them that a crazy Roman had taken a fleet out of Gades to search for them. It was especially worrying, since they had had a long stretch of calm weather. The Lab had radioed that that was going to change in the next few hours, but for now, they were to keep their eyes open.

And that was why she was taking off from the Numenor runway at six-thirty that day. She banked the Cessna wide to turn north east, and headed out over the endless blue-grey water. It was not until near the end of her patrol that she caught a glimpse of _something_ in the corner of her eye.

_What the hell? _

She veered right, wondering what she could have seen. Surely it couldn't be the _Enterprise._

"Uh, Bill," she radioed. "I'm heading north-northeast. There's something funny out there."

"What do you mean, funny?"

"Don't know. I'll take a look." She strained her eyes, looking ahead. The sea looked—_brown with white specks. _"No—really, Bill. There's something out here. Oh, _shit!" _

_"What!"_

"It's the frigging Roman fleet, sport. And I'll bet they're not here to take tea. Radio the Colonel—_now._ I'm going to take a closer look. Over and out."

Vinicius had not received the support he had hoped for. The Emperor had only given permission to send an embassy, supported by a warship, to scout west and look for Atlantis. Vinicius had staked everything on success, and had stripped his province of resources and men. The one ship of the Atlanteans he had seen was big, but showed no sign of weaponry: he was also betting that it was the best and biggest they had. It made sense: only big vessels dared the open water of the Atlantic. With overwhelming numbers, and with surprise on their side, Atlantis and its treasures could be his. The Emperor would forgive his insubordination, were it crowned with success.

Above him, there was a distant humming in the sky, Ashley DeJong drew closer, and dipped low for a count. _I don't know what they're called, but that ship in the lead is freaking huge. _

Vinicius' flagship was the quinquireme Tavington had seen on his scouting adventure: five rowing decks, a huge stern cabin luxuriously furnished, two centuries of crack troops guarding the governor's person. Around him, and fanned out, scanning for land on the horizon, were eight transports, carrying the rest of the 31st Legion, all five thousand men. Three more transports were filled with supplies, weapons, and everything needed to set up a camp and wage war. Seven triremes prowled the edge of the fleet, protecting the transports.

"Come in, Bill. Come in right now! We are in so much trouble!"

"OK. What's the story?"

"One big mother in the middle—guess it's the flagship. Seven fast, pretty aerodynamic looking craft—I'd guess they're warships. And then eleven wide-hulled craft--probably troopships. This ain't no friendly visit."

"Ash, they're getting the Colonel now. I'm going put you through to him—"

"Lieutenant DeJong?"

"Yes, sir! Colonel—" Sometimes Ashley forgot that she was technically an officer of the Atlantis Armed Forces. She and Max Reinhardt were the pilots of their little Air Force. Bill could fly too, but there was no plane for him. There was a helicopter back at Atlantis, but that was used mostly by Michael Flynn on his geological expeditions. Max had told her that that it was being used for training exercises now because of the invasion threat. She took a quick breath, and made her report. "Colonel: we have nineteen vessels headed in our general direction. Their position is north east of Numenor. I can't tell if they've spotted land yet, but they must have seen me. If they continue on course, they're sure to find the islands."

The Colonel's voice, in the head set, sounded thin but calm. "All right. How much time do we have?"

"Hours, sir. Even if they continue straight on, it will be a good four hours before they can make landfall here on Numenor. No—more. They'll have to go all the way around the island to find the beach. The transports are slow, and the wind isn't in their favor. They'll have to row all the way. And I thought of something, sir. I can lead them off course. I'll head due west and hope they follow. Once I'm far enough away, I'll turn south again and head home. I should be back in an hour."

"Very good, Lieutenant. We'll look for you then."

Tavington signed off, thinking rapidly. Messengers were already on their way. One had been sent to the Laboratory to alert the staff, and others to gather his forces. He had hoped for more warning, but four hours would do. From the weather station in her observatory, Julie Kolb had notified him that heavy weather was on the way, but it might not come soon enough to distract the Romans from their attack. Lieutenant DeJong had sounded calm and composed. Her plan was sound. By the time she was back at Numenor Airport, he and the other craft would be there as well.

-----

On board the Roman vessels, pandemonium reigned. Everyone not chained below had rushed up on deck to see the source of the mysterious noise. A gigantic bird, wings spread, soared above them. Some of them, whose eyes were sharper than the rest, said that it did not look like a natural bird at all. It turned toward the west and vanished toward the horizon.

"An omen!" said Agricola, captain of the trireme _Siren. _He had had a bad feeling about this venture from the beginning, and was not pleased at being proved right. His sailors crowded around him, muttering.

Rumors had spread in the last few days about the target of the invasion. A decurion named Proculo had disappeared, and two soldiers under his command swore that they had witnessed a fight with a group of strangers that had ended with a flashes of blue light, and the strangers disappearing, along with Proculo and another man of the 31st.

Vinicius had sent for the men and questioned them himself. It had been a trick of course, Vinicius had declared. Perhaps the men might have been Atlanti, or perhaps not. They were likely some sort of charlatans, who had blown smoke in the men's eyes somehow. The men could have been drunk. Proculo and Galbinius might have deserted. It was hardly worth his worry. The men were punished, and he considered the matter closed.

He was wrong. The story was all over Gades, and had grown with the telling. Many in the city had seen the Atlanti on their original visit. Some believed them to be gods—and not necessarily only the poor and ignorant. Gods or not, they were tremendously clever and powerful, and it was foolish to tempt their anger without knowing more about them.

Captain Agricola was certainly of that opinion. He had given his report to Vinicius, frankly and clearly, about the chances the fleet would have on the open, uncharted seas. He had made a counterproposal: an exploratory mission, using a small ship he had under construction, incorporating some of the ideas he had gleaned from seeing the _Enterprise. _He was something of an engineer himself, and knew some first-class professionals. They had obtained funding from some of the merchants and wealthy entrepreneurs of southern Iberia. While there was no way to create a metal hull, they could build a ship with a much deeper bottom, and line the outside with hammered copper plates. The rigging of the _Enterprise_ Agricola had studied with great care, and also the rudder. The _Enterprise_ had been steered by means of a wheel, which was in turn attached to the rudder that was located in the center of the ship—unlike the steering oars on the side he was familiar with. His new ship would be far more sea-worthy than any galley. Once it was complete, they could make a series of voyages into the Ocean, each longer than the last, gradually improving their charts, and eventually hitting upon Atlantis.

All to no avail. Vinicius had shouted him down, and told him he could obey orders, or lose command of the _Siren._ Agricola had ground his teeth in frustration, but had had no choice. He was a loyal servant of Rome, even if his commander was a prime fool.

And now, he watched the departure of the alien flying creature—for it resembled no bird he had ever seen—and listened to the fading humming noise as it disappeared into the west.

A sailor called out to him. "Captain! A message from the Governor! We're to follow the bird. The Governor thinks it will lead us to Atlantis!"

Agricola sighed, and he flicked a wry glance at his Mucius, his second-in-command. His officer smiled somberly, understanding him. "Pity that the Governor isn't here on the _Siren_," he remarked.

Agricola grunted a reluctant laugh. _A great pity. All sorts of things can happen at sea to a bad commander after dark. _He ordered the maneuver, and the _Siren_ fell in with its neighbors, now heading due west.

-----

Knowing the exact position of the Roman fleet certainly made Tavington's work easier. Given the approach of bad weather, the _Stargazer_ and the _Reliant_ would be kept safely in harbor. It would have taken them hours, even at full speed, to intercept the Romans.

This struggle would be decided by air power. Ashley DeJong had reported that the Romans had turned and appeared to be following behind her. She was swinging wide, out of their range of vision, and was heading back home. The lookouts had all been alerted. Max Reinhardt had gathered his squad of soldiers, and had taken off for Numenor, where he would refuel once more, and await events.

Tavington and his men of the helicopter force were armed and ready, and Michael was performing a last check of the craft before they would fly to Numenor themselves. And then—

He informed _Enterprise_ of their situation, and was alarmed at Captain Urquhart's report.

"We're in a pretty fierce storm, Colonel. We'll be fine, except for a few on board who think they're going to die of sea-sickness, but we'll outlast it. It's just going to blow us home faster. If the Romans get caught in this, though, they'll go straight to the bottom."

"What of your prisoners?" There had been nearly fifty comparatively uninjured Romans left on the captured trireme.

"Well, that's just it, sir. When I found out the storm was blowing up, I knew there was no way in the world we could tow that trireme behind us all the way to New Atlantis. We took the eleven slaves on board the _Enterprise,_ and made for the west of Africa. We put the soldiers off in the shallows along the coast. Then we scuttled the trireme. The Romans are a week's march south of the Mauretanian province, but they should make it back to civilization all right, with the water and provisions they salvaged from their ship. The Major told them which direction to travel, and they didn't like it; but they were just as glad not be enslaved, which seems to have been what they were expecting."

"Well done, Captain. They would have been an inconvenience here anyway, and it's too late for them to join Vinicius' expedition. A little wandering in the wilderness is better than they deserve." Michael was gesturing impatiently at him. "Good luck and good sailing to you, Captain. We'll take care of our own Romans now."

-----

The rendezvous in Numenor was a high-spirited one. The helicopter arrived after Reinhardt; and within a few minutes, Lt. DeJong arrived, to take on her passenger/soldier. The small population turned out to see them off: one woman held up her baby for an astonished Tavington to kiss. The skies were growing grey, and a slight freshening of the breeze hinted at bad weather to come. Tavington wanted to find the Romans, deal with them, and get his precious men and aircraft home safely before the worst of it.

The men smiled excitedly at one another as the helicopter swayed aloft. Men he had known for years, men alongside whom he had fought in another war. They were all time adventurers together, they and their friends from the 21st century. Dieter looked calm, but eager. Michael was at the controls of the helicopter, plainly enjoying himself. The two planes shot out ahead of them, on their mission to harry and confuse the Romans. But not to fire upon them: not yet.

He relaxed back into the most comfortable position he could manage, back to the sloped wall of the helicopter. The noise was horrendous, but Tavington was helped by the phones over his ears, keeping him in contact with his pilots and his captains, and with Markham back at New Atlantis with the ground patrol. They were at the Laboratory, receiving reports from the lookouts. If any Romans were sighted along the coasts, Markham and his men could be gated and deployed to the site almost instantly.

Some of the soldiers were bellowing some sort of filthy song. He rewarded them with the cool smile they wanted, and then lost himself in thought, considering all the possibilities. _No captured trireme. That's no great loss, though I gathered that Lesley wanted it as some sort of toy. No fifty able-bodies prisoners to guard. That's actually a gain. I don't think Marcus Aurelius will argue with our reasoning, when he learns what we did with them. Eleven workers to be assigned duties. Lyudmilla will interview them on the Enterprise—no, probably has, if I know her—and recommend how to make the best use of their abilities. I hope there are some potential farm laborers among them. _

They were such a _small_ population, and so many of their best people were scientists, with no desire to work the land. The agronomist Jack Gronewald and his team needed more people to help produce the basic foodstuffs that were rationed to every citizen. Every one of the original settlers who wanted a farm had been given one: five hundred acres each to start. It was now policy that any subsequent grant would be based on service, with military personnel being granted preference.

Tavington himself had a very nice bit of property not far from town. He had planned out the future estate on paper with loving care, with an appealing log house to be made of some of the strong _lauresilvia_ wood that had had to be cleared for their town. A high-ceilinged, welcoming hall, with plenty of room for a growing family. He had already planted a small orchard, but not much else had been achieved. He needed some strong backs, and he needed someone to live there all the time. Indentured labor was a possibility. A promise of land of their own in exchange for a set number of years of service…

Locke grinned at him, still bawling out his song. Tavington smiled back, thinking about Locke's new farm, Bag End. Locke was obsessed with _The Lord of the Rings_, and Trinity just indulged him—so much so that Locke had actually completed a house on his own farm—a house that, with the help of Atlantean engineers, was as close to a hobbit hole as possible.

_It was a pleasant day in June when Trinity and Locke had invited the community to their "Open House." Everyone had hiked or ridden into the hills, or been transported by one of the heavy earthmovers, each pulling a wagon. Burdened with gifts, with picnic food, with children, a mob had descended on Locke's new home, and buzzed with excitement. Tavington had stared unbelieving when he saw it, but Doug Horn had earnestly explained that it was not a bad design, all in all. _

_"Earth-sheltered—keeps the temperature very regular. Being built into the hill like it is really conserved a lot on building materials. The aluminum roof is covered by a layer of sod and thick grass. We've treated the windows with microsolars. It's very functional, very earth-friendly—"_

_"—It has a round, green door," Tavington had replied, somewhat stupent. "It has sheep on its roof." _

_Locke had expanded with pride. "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it glorious?" _

_From the oohings and aahings about them, it sounded like his would not be the first of these odd places. And it was not as strange, indeed, as the bizarre, dome-shaped residence of the Kolbs… _

Max Reinhardt's voice interrupted his musings. "Target in sight, Colonel. Ashley and I are going to down to buzz 'em."

"Excellent. Harass and terrorize them, but do not fire any weapons—and above all, do nothing that imperils your own safety."

"Understood, Colonel."

-----

Appalled and bewildered by the return of the huge bird—now accompanied by its larger mate, it appeared—the Roman fleet froze, unsure how to proceed. The captains ordered the rowers to slow, and gradually they came to a dead stop, slapped about by the swelling waves. Vinicius had no idea what to do. The birds roared overhead, closer and closer, like monsters from the days of myth and legend. What would they do? Snatch men from the deck and rend them? There were a few archers amongst the sailors, and one of two launched futile arrows against the terrifying threat. The arrows could not reach or hit the swooping, speedy creatures, and fell back uselessly to deck or water.

The birds roared past, nearly touching the tops of the masts, and the Romans were relieved briefly, but then saw that the monsters were turning for another pass. Some of the watchers were slipping below, terrified by what they imagined would happen next. The captain of Vinicius' own flagship was urging the Governor in fierce whispers to turn the fleet around.

"Plainly, this is a place that man was never meant to see. We cannot fight against gods."

Vinicius clouted him, his obsession redoubling with the unlooked-for opposition. "They aren't dangerous!" he insisted stubbornly. "They haven't done anything! You!" he shouted below to the rowing chief, "Get those men rowing! Full speed!"

There were some grim looks behind him. His officers had begun to think for some time that their commander was not of sound mind on the subject of the Atlanti. He claimed to have orders from the Emperor, but no one had been allowed to see them. A pair of popular, well-connected military tribunes, who could have verified the orders, had been sent north. And Imperial orders or no, there were situations that soldiers should not be made to endure—especially if the situation were hopeless.

The birds were returning, with a terrible deep roar. The men on deck braced themselves, as they tore past, and felt the wind of them strike. The ships directly below faltered, the very rowers terrified by the unseen thunder.

Agricola, on the _Siren_, gritted his teeth, holding himself erect. It was all he could do not to collapse to his knees in fear, as men all around him were. They had traveled beyond the limits of man's knowledge and were in the land of unknown monsters. Vinicius had led them into this nightmare, and someone must lead them out. The giant birds were roaring away, but no doubt would soon return. He could signal to his friend on some other ships. It was plain that they needed to put about and make for Africa.

Before he could call the signalman to his side, another roaring sound came out of the south. This black dot moved more slowly, and was no bird. The men, terrified but curious, crowded to the rail. The ship listed slightly to port, with the uneven distribution of weight. Agricola was too intent himself on the imminent threat to order them back.

It was coming closer, a monster that looked like a huge black insect. Somehow, that made it all the more horrible. A giant bird was not so unnatural. This thing was truly dreadful, and men who had withstood the other creatures were utterly unmanned by this apparition. It approached, slowed, and descended toward them, hovering in a frightful way.

Then, unbelievably, it spoke.

_"I am William Tavington, Prince of Atlantis! You are in forbidden waters! Put about and leave at once or you shall be destroyed! You have been warned!" _

The voice was unearthly. It bellowed like thunder, but even the galley-slaves below decks heard it. It was the voice of a god, and even those among the Romans who had long since ceased to believe in gods knew they had just met one.

Vinicius' jaw sagged. His officers were pulling at him desperately. He stood still, shocked, unable to think or act.

Agricola could not control his own trembling. His entire body recoiled from the thunderous voice. It was no disgrace to retreat before a god. Indeed, it showed proper piety to respect the gods of any place.

He forced himself into command mode, and shouted, "Put about! Head due east for Africa!" His men who could still function obeyed, stumbling in their confusion. The turn would take time and would be dangerous, with the other ships in the fleet, but it was madness to continue as they were. The drums of the galley thudded out, and the ship began to gradually change course. Agricola looked east, and despaired. The eastern sky was a mass of thick clouds. They could not survive a severe storm in these waters. But they could not survive here, either.

He saw that his friends on the _Harpy_ and the _Syracuse _were attempting the course change as well. Between them were the troopships, heavier and less maneuverable. They wallowed indecisively, struggling to move.

Above them, the Atlanteans watched the events with some satisfaction. "Well, Colonel," remarked Reinhardt. "It looks like some of the Romans are turning around."

Tavington observed the scene grimly. Some of the Roman fleet was indeed obeying. But there was confusion. Some of the ships were turning to port, other to starboard, and some were heading for collision. The transports were moving slowly, if at all. Some of the Roman ships were doggedly forging ahead. Vinicius' quinquireme was one of them. A few other ships huddled close, as if taking courage from their leader.

Tavington snarled with frustration. Michael observed, "Some people are just too stupid to live. With their current course heading, they'll be lost on the way to North America."

"And they could change course and be on our shores in hours!" Tavington snapped in reply.

He switched on the amplifier and called down to the fleet below once more. _"Put about or be destroyed! Romans, this is your final warning! Marcus Vinicius, you have betrayed your men! I see you, you lunatic. You have led your men into a massacre. You have no orders to invade. Order your fleet to retreat, or their deaths will be on your head!" _

Marcus Vinicius was horrified at hearing his own name in the roar of the monster. He shouted back at his men, "It's only a voice! It can't do anything to us! We are Romans, not cowards! Ignore it—it's only a trick!"

A few more ships peeled away from Vinicius' fleet. The Romans were in total disarray. A pair of transports had smashed together, breaching their hulls, and spilling their men into the water. One of the triremes was attempting to rescue the swimmers. The wind was picking up, and the seas were getting choppier.

"The weather's turning bad, Colonel," said Ashley DeJong. "We should get out of this as soon as possible."

"Yes, certainly," agreed Tavington. "I want you and Reinhardt to make one more pass and then return to Numenor at once. Reinhardt, have your bombardier target that trireme alongside the flagship. We will follow shortly."

The unfortunate trireme, loyal to the last to its commander, did not even see the bomb that destroyed it. The monster bird roared overhead, and almost instantly the world exploded in white fire. The ship blew apart, scattering itself and its crew over a broad radius.

Absolutely shocked, the rest of the flagship's last escort slowed and began to turn. The quinquireme plowed on alone. Tavington might have glimpsed Vinicius earlier, but he could not see the little struggle going on the deck of the flagship, officers trying to assassinate the governor, others trying to protect him, the troops rioting, and a mortal paralysis taking hold. Had he seen this clearly, he might not have uttered his next command.

"Fire a missile amidships."

A trail of smoke, and a gaping hole appeared in the flagship. Vinicius and the men crowding around him vanished. Friend and foe died together, and the ship broke in two before sinking. A few survivors managed to swim out enough to avoid being sucked down by the vessel, but most were lost.

The rest of the fleet was in retreat. Tavington considered his implicit bargain with Marcus Aurelius. Some of the ships might make it to Africa. Some might even survive to return to Roman lands. He considered pursuit and destruction, but decided against it for two equally sound reasons.

First, the storm was picking up and would probably do their work for them. And even if it did not, it would be reckless to remain out here, risking himself and his men to kill a defeated and demoralized enemy.

Second, while his men might obey him, and Dieter might not care, Michael would certainly not agree to a cold-blooded slaughter of the helpless Romans. He could see that the man already felt dismay that he could not rescue them. Tavington liked Michael, and valued his good opinion, and did not want to compromise their friendship by asking something of his friend that could destroy it completely. Diana, too, would not understand such a massacre.

If any of the Romans lived to tell the tale of the wrath of the Atlanti, Marcus Aurelius could make of it what he liked. The well-being of New Atlantis did not depend upon the good will of Rome. However mighty and populous the Empire, they should know that they could not threaten Tavington's people with impunity.

And so he spoke simply to Michael: "Take us back to Numenor." The helicopter surged up and turned south towards their islands, leaving behind them chaos and despair.

-----

The storm struck with full force in another hour. While it had merely pushed _Enterprise_ homeward, it knocked the Romans ships about like driftwood. Of the fifteen ships not already destroyed, twelve were swamped and sunk in short order. One, buffeted and damaged, survived through the night, and slowly went under, despite the heroic efforts of its doomed crew.

The winds had come from the north-east, and so pushed the surviving two southwards. One, the _Harpy_, leaking slowly, was forced very far to the south indeed, and when the storm ended, found itself in strange waters.

Their captain, who had kept his head throughout, turned them east, knowing that he must find land eventually. He did, and he and nearly all his men arrived one day on a sunny coast. They gathered what they could from their irreparably damaged ship, and a little inland they found a small, white city of brick, engaged in a life-or-death struggle with a rival. There the Romans found adventure, and some found death, and some found romance, and some found fortune and glory; but none ever returned across the desert to Roman lands. And so they vanish from this story, and live on in their own.

The last ship left was the beleaguered _Siren. _Escaping collisions, rescuing swimmers, and its steering oar destroyed early on, it was swept along helplessly before the storm. The sky darkened with the coming of night, but the winds were unabated. Above them, Agricola heard a dreadful, familiar sound.

"Breakers!"

_Well, Vinicius was looking for an island. We appeared to have found one. _

"Unchain the rowers!" he ordered. There was no point in not giving the slaves their chance for life.

The _Siren_ was supplied with a small rowboat. Some of the sailors looked longingly at it, but it would only hold a handful, and Agricola ordered it broken up, to make planks for as many men as possible.

There was one last order to give. Speaking up clearly, for it was no time to face death with a trembling lip, he addressed his men. "You have done all that men and Romans can do for the honor of your country, your Emperor, and your gods. It is no shame now for you to do your best to save your lives. Gentlemen: unarm."

He set the example, doffing his helmet, unbuckling his breastplate, stooping to remove his greaves, and finally dropping his sword to the heaving deck. His men, however, reluctantly, followed suit. Agricola did not flatter either himself or his men to be made of the heroic stuff of a Horatius, who could swim in full armor.

The rowers swarmed onto the deck, and looked about wildly. Some cast themselves into the sea, some clung to the rail. There was a blow, a crunch, and Agricola winced, knowing that the hull had been breached. Still, he would stay with his ship as long as possible.

Another blow, and a great lurch, and the ship tilted half over, caught in yet another rock. Men were swept overboard, crying prayers and curses. A bolt of lightning struck the mast, and it toppled forwards, smashing the bow. Another crash shook the ship and Agricola fell, his head striking the rail.

-----

In the darkness before dawn of the next day, the lookout on Weathertop, a woman named Janie Proctor, reported that there was wreckage on the north side of Numenor. Tavington grunted when he heard the news. If a ship had made it there, it would have found an inhospitable shore indeed—cliffs and rocks, and a few scraps of stony beach—and no place for any kind of ship to land.

A little later, he and a party set out in a rugged, electric-powered vehicle. The storm had done some damage to the orange groves, but the buildings had withstood it well. The aircraft in the hangars were safe, above all. Some of the inhabitants had already gone out on foot or horseback to the site of the wreck.

The vehicle reached the crest of the hills at the edge of the sea. Looking down onto the shore, Tavington saw the skeleton of a ship. The keel and some ribs remained, along with a portion of the upper deck. A small crowd of people swarmed over the rocks, searching for survivors, picking up items of interest, and shouting to each other.

"Colonel Tavington!" called out the harbormaster's wife, Mrs. Haley, seeing him climbing down the slope with his patrol.

Mark and Marisol McKenzie had come along to offer any medical assistance. The first bodies Tavington saw were beyond their help. His people had pulled them from the surf and had laid them out decently on a stretch of rocky strand.

Mrs. Haley pushed past the others and bustled over to him. "There are a few live ones. One big fellow must have swum past the rocks and made it onto the shore, but he's hurt. Must have been hit with a spar, because his scalp is bleeding like damn."

They brought him to the man. A huge fellow indeed, even by their own standards, with an immense chest and powerful arms and shoulders. Obviously a galley slave, from his musculature. He sat silent and passive, accepting the blanket thrown over his shoulders and the cloth pressed to his temple with neither thanks nor resistance. Mark went to have a look at his head, and the man flinched, probably expecting a blow. Mark muttered at him impatiently, and the man subsided, glancing about him furtively.

Two other Romans were lying on the shore. One was still unconscious, and the other simply too exhausted to get up. Marisol had a look at them, and then got them onto the stretchers for the steep climb back to the vehicle.

Mrs. Haley whispered low to Tavington. "And there's another one. He's up at Janie's cabin. I think she was trying to hide him, but I saw him _sleeping in her bed_ when I got her message and stopped by." She pursed her lips, and said, "You should have a word with her. Charity is all right in its place, but he could be a danger to her and everyone else."

"Thank you, Mrs. Haley. I shall see to it."

A man looking out to sea, called, "There's another floater!"

A group of men waded out to catch the corpse and drag it to shore. Tavington left a sergeant to supervise the work, and climbed back up the hill.

Weathertop Lookout was a few dozen yards away.The new small stone and log cabin had endured the storm unhurt, the only casualties being the battered nasturtiums, recently transplanted, growing thick around the doorway, and some of the pole beans and tomatoes in the neat little garden. A few sheep in a little shed nearby bleated plaintively.

He knocked at the door. "Miss Proctor, it is Colonel Tavington." Abruptly, the door swung wide and Janie Proctor stood before him.

The little cabin had a tiny bedroom and a tinier bathroom off the workroom/kitchen/office with its stone fireplace. There was a litter of projects about the place, but it was essentially orderly.

So too, was Janie, a tall and independent woman who had jumped at the chance to be the lookout and have this little isolated cabin of her own. At the time, she had told Tavington, "I've had enough of being crowded together with dozens of other women in that factory. I _want_ to be alone!" She had discharged her duties faithfully, reporting punctually on schedule. Now she could not meet his eyes, and shifted from one foot to another, obviously anxious.

Tavington said gently, "I understand that you have captured one of our invaders. May I see him?"

She shrugged wordlessly and led him to the door of the bedroom. Flinging it open, she gave a nod toward the bed.

The Roman had heard the knock, the man's voice, and the door of the hut being opened. His fate was upon him, and he struggled to get up and face it bravely. He had only a confused memory of the events when the woman had helped him up from the water last night. She had brought him to her little hut, and pulled off his sodden tunic. He had tumbled gratefully into the surprisingly large and comfortable bed without dreaming of putting up a fight. When he awakened this morning, he had seen her more clearly.

She was certainly nothing like Princess Nausicaa in the _Odyssey_. Even if he could remember his few lessons in the Greek classics, he wouldnot have used Homer's words to flatter her: _"I pray you, lady, to tell me if you are nymph or mortal!" _

No, this was certainly a woman, and not a beautiful young princess. She was tall and strong: strong enough to help him up the dimly remembered rocky climb, and to undress him and put him to bed in the cubiculum of the hut. In fact, she was an improvement over Princess Nausicaa, in that she did not bother him with high-flown poetry, but brought him a bowl of sweet and hearty oat porridge, and then a hot drink, tasting of apples.

The door to the cubiculum opened, and revealed a tall soldier of the Atlanti, dressed in the remembered red coat. The woman came in behind him, looking sullen. The soldier spoke briefly but not angrily to her, and then addressed the man sitting on the bed.

In good Latin, the soldier asked, "Who are you, Roman?"

With what dignity he could muster, naked as he was save for the good blanket, the Roman rose to his feet and replied, "I am Aulus Meridius Agricola, captain of the _Siren._"

The Atlantean looked at him a moment, with something like cool compassion. "Well, Aulus Meridius Agricola, your ship is destroyed. A few of your men have been rescued from the sea and are being cared for. As far as we know you are the only survivors of Governor Vinicius' foolish venture."

The Roman took this---well, thought Tavington, like a Roman. He merely asked, "And what do you plan for us? Slavery?"

Tavington laughed slightly. "No. We do not keep slaves. Nor do we torture men to death. You will remain here, for there is no way for you to return to the Empire. If you conduct yourself decently, you will be well-treated. Otherwise—" he shrugged.

He turned to Janie. "Are his clothes wearable? I should take him to New Atlantis, and we'll find some work to put him to."

The woman turned a fierce look on him. "He's hurt. He should stay here." With growing ire, she declared, "I _saved_ him. He's _my_ Roman, and I should get to keep him!"

Agricola could not follow the conversation, but saw the woman's displeasure.

Tavington noticed his interest, and translated with some amusement. "She feels you should be the reward of her efforts. And you do owe her your life."

"I would be her slave?"

The Atlantean tilted his head thoughtfully, and answered, "Her servant, perhaps. Her companion, if you will. She has her duties as lookout, and her garden and a small flock of sheep. I believe she also owns a small fishing boat. No doubt she would find you useful. My first thought was to take you to Atlantis and assign you to farm labor—"

Agricola shuddered. He had seen slaves worked on the great _latifundia_ farms in the countryside, and knew it for a short life of exhausting labor and harsh punishments. Hastily, he told the soldier, "I give you my word of honor as a Roman officer that I will neither harm this woman nor attempt to escape." His strength was gone, and he sat down heavily on the bed.

Tavington assured the suspicious Janie. "He has promised to behave himself. I think he likes the idea of staying here. In a few weeks we'll talk some more, and see if it's going well. If he gives you any trouble, radio us and we'll sort him out for you."

With that, he left the pleasant little cabin, and strolled back to waiting vehicle, humming a favorite tune. It was time to go home.

-----

**Notes**: cubiculum—bedroom

No, I'm never going to write anything more about the adventure of the crew of the _Harpy_ in Africa. It's a ripping yarn, but you'll just have to imagine it for yourselves.

Next chapter: **The Dust Settles: October, 150 A.D.** The consequences of the failed invasion, and some new undertakings. !


	26. Tavington's Atlantis, part 9

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination.

_Life in Atlantis ten weeks after the Roman defeat. _

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 9 **

**The Dust Settles: November, 150 A.D. **

"She's put in a claim for her five hundred acres."

"That's all very well," observed Tavington, "but she never cared about them before."

"He put her up to it, of course."

Diana laughed. "Well—_Agricola_ does mean 'farmer.' He must be rediscovering his roots."

This regular morning meeting of the Committee was remarkably well-attended. The assimilation of their new citizens had cost some time and patience, but some of the new Atlanteans were proving their worth. The former Roman captain had accepted his new lot in life, and had even persuaded the rough-edged Janie to accept him as a husband. Tavington smiled cynically. No doubt discovering that Janie could claim such a holding had played a part.

Agricola had acknowledged his debt to her from the first, and perhaps for that reason jealously demanded that his savior be given every consideration and reward that could be hers. It was he who had wanted to know the legal ownership of the new little cabin at Weathertop—and then, how much land about it was hers. He had plans for it, had Agricola. He was working hard, fishing, tilling the little garden, caring for the sheep, and raising what money he could. On the next trading voyage of the Enterprise, he wanted to give a commission to buy certain Italian vinestock, and some young olive trees of the best sort.

Tavington wished him well. The Roman was not so different from himself, and was the kind of man Tavington thought a particularly useful member of society. It was reported that Agricola had spoken to the other survivors, urging them to find and marry, if at all possible, similarly-dowered Atlantean women. One of them had demurred, smirking a little as he discounted Janie's plain looks, but Agricola had called him a fool. Looks did not last forever, but land did. And his wife was a strong, healthy, and hard-working woman—a real wife—not some flighty young girl, good for only one thing. She had property, and she had been entrusted with a serious civic responsibility. He considered himself a fortunate man, and did not care what fools thought.

All in all, the Romans had adjusted surprisingly well. The former galley-slaves, of course, were only too happy to live without chains, to have the simple dignity of clothing, to be paid wages. Tavington had secured the services of the brawny Belbo, the fellow who had swum to safety after the wreck of the _Siren._ At first he had watched him carefully, knowing that men who had lived in such dreadful conditions might be savage brutes, but Belbo was a gentle giant, he soon realized; condemned to the galleys because he had proved himself of no use at all as a gladiator. His one desire, he shyly confided in his new employer, was never to go to sea again. An easy enough wish to grant. Belbo was immensely useful about the town, and the children loved him. He would be even more useful in the next few months, when Tavington laid the foundations of his country villa.

_Odd,_ thought Tavington, _that I should call it that._ _Perhaps the cultural influence is not all one-sided. _Of the other two survivors of the _Siren,_ one, Dromion, was a plucky fellow with a weakness for strong drink. Aside from that fault, he had found work among the fishing boats, and supplied some useful expertise with the nets.

The other, Publius Vibius, hardly more than a boy, was the son of a minor government clerk who had thought life at sea would be a romantic adventure. He had discovered that adventure was not as much to his taste as he had imagined. He was literate, and had taken to hanging about the Museum and Library until Marianne, who did not suffer idlers in her domain, found work for him. He was making good progress with his English, and was a source of interesting information about domestic Roman life. His only defect, in Tavington's opinion, was his excessively pretty, boyish face. The Atlantean schoolgirls had made something of a pet of him—including his own Emily. Diana laughed at his complaints, but she would not laugh if a penniless Roman waif were to take advantage of her cherished foster-daughter. The boy had actually turned up at the most recent ball, clad in his shabby castoffs, and Emily had taught him to waltz. Tavington had given him a good glare, when the women were not watching, just to let the little interloper know where he stood.

Rather surprisingly, two of the Roman wounded, the most seriously hurt of all the attackers at the Pillars of Hercules, had pleaded to remain. After some consultation, they were permitted to do so. The others had been allowed to leave, as Tavington had agreed with Marcus Aurelius, but Tavington had not promised to force the men to return against their will. Perhaps it was their long stay that had convinced them—one, in fact, was still not perfectly well. They certainly would have died under the care of Roman physicians. Perhaps, also, it was the charms of the female medical staff. The healthier of the two had taken to performing light duties as a medical aide, and the staff were satisfied with his conduct. They always needed more help.

The other, Nikeratos, was an educated slave--Ulpius' secretary in fact--and was highly conversant with Roman administrative procedures. Ulpius had been shocked when told his secretary had asked to stay, but had not dared protest. Nikeratos was learning English, and would probably continue his career as a secretary, but in the service of Atlantis, not Rome. And as a free man.

Both had been too ill, of course, to be present at the _Enterprise's_ triumphant return to its home port. Lesley, Pattie, Hugh, and all the rest of the ship's complement were given the heroes' welcome they deserved. As far as trade was concerned, the voyage had been a roaring success: everyone would share in the increased wealth of the community.

Pattie was full of ideas about developing their connections. There were not a great many Atlanteans: why not, then, form partnerships with Roman businesses to produce some of the things that they needed, and that the Romans might soon find they desired? Ceramics, for one thing. There were superb potters in Alexandria, in Massilia, in Rome, of course—and with a little technical improvement, they could produce tableware, roof tiles, storage jars, and even sanitary fixtures! Iron, too would be more practical if they could buy it in neat ingots, rather than mining it themselves. Ideas flowed from Pattie like water over a dam, and it would take months to digest all the exciting notions.

Diana and Lyudmilla, on hearing some the possibilities, remarked that partnerships should be made with businesses not using slave labor. It would be a useful way to express their own views, and an effective means of social engineering. Ferguson, in his turn, quietly told Tavington that sometimes the 21's were a little too particular, but there was no use debating with them on the subject. On consideration, he thought that condition might be met—and might result in a better product anyway.

These were pleasant musings, and diverted him from the anxieties that preyed on his mind. For no sooner had _Enterprise _returned to Atlantis for needed refitting, and even more necessary rest and recreation for the crew, than the _Stargazer,_ captained by Todd Aherne, had set out for Ireland. It was a little late in the year, but the calculated risk was agreed upon. It would be harvest time, and the best possible time to trade for foodstuffs.

However, a week into the journey, the _Stargazer_ had ceased communications. The entire settlement worried. The Committee members reiterated comforting opinions that there had simply been some sort of electrical systems failure. Had the _Stargazer_ been sunk, there would have been time to send a message. The voyage was only supposed to have lasted around six weeks. The ship was overdue, but no one wanted to give it up for lost until winter.

At night, Tavington would lie awake, and think about it endlessly. The loss of one of their ships would be a serious loss indeed. More dreadful would be the loss of the ship's crew: Aherne, one of their few trained navigators, of course; Kathleen Mackie, one of their clothiers, who had gone to handle the trading for flax and linen; his dear friend Michael Flynn, who was simply irreplaceable.

And Drew Markham, as well. He had allowed Markham to go, partly as a reward for his stalwart and thankless service during the past crisis. Other than the brief visit to Rome, Markham had been assigned the dreariest, least dashing duties. He had wanted so much to prove himself in a "first contact" situation. And besides, Ferguson and Bordon really wished to spend time with their families. Tavington had considered going himself, but was simply too busy. And so Markham had gone—perhaps forever.

In addition, each of the small crew was either one of their rare and precious sailors, or one his own soldiers—and the ship's company had included a _doctor_ as well!

He forced the worry from his mind. If the _Stargazer_ was indeed lost, there was nothing to be done about it.

At the meeting, there were endless reports: from the health inspector, keeping an eye on the various brewers and distillers; from the principal of the school, Miss Crockett, who needed more schoolbooks, and was putting in place an adult evening curriculum for some of their new immigrants. Tavington was all for it: their new people needed to know some English, but also needed to understand the laws and customs of Atlantis.

The latest film offering had been a repeat of _The Hobbit,_ the wonderful six-hour adventure that Diana showed in three parts. It had been explained to the old-timers that this was a story, a myth, and a kind of play. Some were clearly unsettled by the pictures, and at first had trouble understanding the scene changes. Amyntor, Dion, and Lysis had prepared their fellows somewhat, but they still were all overwhelmed. Ptolemy had wanted to have every detail of the mechanics explained to him; Merianis asked where the music was coming from; Serapion wanted to understand the religious and philosophical underpinnings of Middle Earth (and Tavington wondered if he thought that was the origin of the Atlanteans). Only Belbo was unalarmed: watching the adventures with delight, listening with stolid happiness as Diana, or Emily, or Gretchen whispered translations in his ear, and cheering the fall of Smaug along everyone else.

As strange as the films were, they were a way of explaining themselves to their old-timer friends, and Diana had suggested that she go over to Numenor once a month, and show a film at the hangar: the only building large enough. She was taking over the 2019 version of _The Adventures of_ _Hercules._ Tavington wondered if it was a special effort on behalf of Agricola.

He was startled from these thoughts by a loud pounding on the conference room door.

"Colonel!" shouted the voice of Sergeant McKenzie.

"Come in, McKenzie," Tavington called back. "What is it?"

"A radio message from Aurora Point! The _Stargazer's_ been sighted!"

There was a bit more to the message: the Stargazer appeared unhurt and would be in port in another hour. This effectively broke up the meeting, since everyone wanted to see the ship arrive. Tavington and Diana gave each other a radiant look of relief, and hurried down to the sea themselves.

Half the town turned out, even the schoolchildren, crowding toward the harbor and speculating excitedly about the voyage. There was a considerable wait, but at last their patience was rewarded. Unquestionably, it was their lost lamb. Low to the water, graceful and swift, the _Stargazer_ was a tiny shape in the distance.

More and more people joined them: wives and husbands and children of the travelers. It seemed forever before the ship would dock, but at last Tavington could make out the powerful form of Michael, standing in the bow and waving to them.

_He's all right, at least. Thank God._ The intensity of the emotion surprised Tavington. _I'm really very fond of him. I can hardly spare any friends—I have few enough of them._ Diana glanced up at him, and then put her hand in the crook of his arm and squeezed, seeming to understand him.

At last the ship was safely bestowed, and Tavington walked down the quay to greet them all. Aherne gave him a smile and a respectful nod, and returned Tavington's handshake with great good humor.

"Welcome home, Captain."

"Thank you, Colonel. It's good to be back. Sorry about keeping you all in the dark. Our electrical systems need to be overhauled, but otherwise it went very well."

"I look forward to your report."

Michael jumped lightly over the rail, for such a big man, and clapped Tavington on the shoulder. From any other man, Tavington would have thought it a liberty, but he accepted that he really was very, very glad that Michael was home and unharmed. So was Elyssa, Michael's assistant, who rushed forward and threw her arms about him. His friend looked at Tavington with a hint of apology, and then gave Elyssa a passionate kiss.

_Well,_ thought Tavington, _I wasn't sure about them, but now I am. _

"Is Lieutenant Markham—" he asked Aherne, feeling the beginnings of dread.

"Oh, he's fine, Colonel. Everybody's fine. He's just getting the ladies from below."

Before Tavington could ask what Aherne meant, Markham appeared, leading a comely young woman by the hand. Red-haired, stone-pale of skin, and wearing a straight linen dress of saffron color, she could be nothing but Irish. Following her were three other women. They each carried a small wooden chest, and varied in age from their teens to their thirties. A plank was laid for them to cross to the quay upon, and on seeing the first woman more closely, Tavington realized that she was older than he had at first thought: perhaps in her mid-twenties.

Markham was quite solicitous as he guided her to his waiting Colonel. Unaccountably, he blushed at Tavington's questioning look.

"Colonel Tavington—Mrs. Tavington. Let me present to you Princess Ceindrych, sister of the King of the Erainn."

"_Princess_ Ceindrych?"

"Well—yes," replied Markham looking both pleased and little sheepish. "My wife."

Without missing a beat, Diana immediately took charge of the courtesies, "How wonderful! Congratulations to you both!" She smiled at the younger woman, and repeated her words in Latin. The princess showed no sign of comprehension, and looked wary, but relieved, at Diana's friendly tones.

Michael came up for air long enough to translate after a fashion. He explained, "I don't speak much of the language—it's not much like modern Irish at all. I communicate like a five-year old, but she understood me. She doesn't know any Latin, of course, but luckily the King had a few wisefolk about him who understood us, and he himself knew a few words. You should have been there! We sailed right into Cork Harbor, and there was nothing much more than a few stone huts. It's one of the finest harbors in the British Isles, so it was a surprise to see how uninhabited it was. We met the King a few days later, though, and hit it off with him pretty well."

"So it would seem," Tavington remarked dryly.

"Oh, Drew was quite the hero—saved the King from a big boar-pig, and then the King's flock from some raiders sent by the neighboring 'realm.'" He laughed, with a touch of irony. "Oh, indeed; they're all Kings there in Ireland! And the King was so overwhelmed with our gifts that I think he was anxious to return the favor with something of great value—and so he gave us the big island in the harbor for our use, and the mighty warrior married the princess!"

Tavington gave Markham's bride a polite bow, and they made way for the ship to be unloaded. Pigs squealed below, much to the satisfaction of his own men, who were happily anticipating a pork barbecue.

The Fergusons arrived, and there were more courtesies exchanged. Polly glanced around, puzzled.

"Where's Kathleen?"

Captain Aherne and Michael looked at each other. "She's still in Ireland. She decided to winter there."

Diana was shocked. "Why on earth would she do that?"

Sally looked at Polly, sharing some secret understanding. "It was the spinning wheel, wasn't it?"

Michael understood her. "Yes. She brought a spinning wheel to demonstrate it. You can't imagine how the women all over the country took on about her. If you think the _Romans_ thought we were gods—"

Tavington was a little disdainful. "All for a _spinning wheel?_"

Polly rolled her eyes. "Spoken like a man, of course. You could have no idea what a spinning wheel, a machine that makes ten times the thread in half the time, would mean to women."

"True," said Diana, beginning to grasp it. "With drop spindles, women used to spend every free moment trying to make a foot or so of thread. It's the main reason clothing was so expensive and difficult to make. It's why an unmarried woman is called a spinster."

Sally concluded, speaking to the men as if they were dolts. "_Weaving _is fast. _Spinning_ is slow."

"But she's all right, isn't she?" asked Diana, rather anxiously.

"Oh, she's the Witch Queen of All Ireland," Michael assured her. "Part of the reason we came back later than we planned was because we were helping the Irish make copies of her spinning wheel. She got some sort of bee in her bonnet, when she saw how the women lived, and how hard they worked… She has a book about first aid and midwifery with her, too. She's going to do what she can for them, and we're to come for her in the spring. Maybe a few immigrants will be coming with her."

Diana had grown very quiet, and Tavington was beginning to wonder if her head ached from the excitement, when she whispered to him. "I feel so ashamed. When I joined the Project, it was to make a better future for the whole world, not just for myself. Kathleen's a hero, and she's doing what I should be doing."

Alarmed, and not wishing his wife to rush off into the blue to save humanity, he whispered back, "You have nothing to apologize for. We can hardly improve the world if our own settlement is unfit to live in. And you were a tremendous help with the Romans."

"I should be doing more." She said nothing else, and made an effort to seem herself, greeting all the crew and asking about their adventures. Tavington decided everyone would benefit from a proper party, and sent off messengers to Lisa and Summer. Numenor would be radioed, so that anyone there who wished could join them. The weather promised fair, and they would simply set up trestles and benches in the square for a general festival.

Traveling back to the Town Hall, they met Bordon with Clytie, who was now too far gone with child to walk quickly. She was looking exceedingly pretty in her pregnancy, and still favored the bright yellow garments that Diana had first dressed her in. There were more merry meetings. Tavington spared a glance to the young Irishwomen, who were gaping with wonder at the town. Markham appeared quite smitten with his young wife. The fact that she was red-haired, like his former sweetheart and partner Carolyn Kelly, was not lost on Tavington.

_But I wonder how the girl and her attendants will deal with civilization. They're not like Romans, after all, familiar with city life and sanitation. _

As if reading his mind, Michael fell into step with them. "Before we do any socializing, we'll need to get cleaned up." He dropped his voice, "as you can imagine, lice were a problem. The doctor's gotten the girls used to the idea of washing, but we'll all need go through the microsonics at the Laboratory as soon as possible, just to get rid of spare animal life. Our clothes and the girls' possessions in their boxes, too. The Princess has a splendid wolf-fur coverlet, but you can picture…" He grimaced in distaste.

Tavington grunted agreement. He remembered all too well how hard it was to keep clean on campaign. Some of his fellow officers in the Carolinas had shaved their heads and worn wigs to avoid head lice. He hated wigs, and had had to spend hours with a fine-toothed comb to keep the nits out. He felt not the slightest desire to return to those days. Let the Irishwomen fancy it a sacred rite of purification if they liked, but clean they would be.

------

It was all very delightful late that evening, sitting at the head table, and admiring the festive lights decorating the wide square. Ron and Karen Stark and some of their music students kept up a riotous accompaniment for the dancing and eating. Three pigs, two beeves, and three sheep had been cooking since noon. Pork was a long-forgotten treat, and with the excellent food, the wine, the cider, the beer, he was feeling his mellowest. Diana had not fully recovered her spirits, but was gracious to everyone. At a table to his right, he saw Jennifer, who caught his glance and smiled happily. Startled, he smiled back. _I've never seen her so happy. Perhaps---? _

Diana had seen the look exchanged. She touched her husband's arm, and murmured, "Jennifer's had some very good news. She asked me to tell you, but somehow I was distracted." She smiled: the proper, diplomatic smile he had seen her use in Rome. "Her baby is due inJuly of next year. She's so excited. It's quite brought her out of her shell."

He wondered if she was regretting her open-minded generosity to her friend, but was too proud and honorable to admit it. He must tread carefully, and not wound her. He replied, rather non-committally, "I am very glad to hear it. I'm sure she will be an excellent mother, and perhaps now she will mix more."

The Starks took a break, and sat down to their share of the barbecue. Berenike spelled them; tuning her tall harp and playing a sweet and gentle tune. The crowd quieted a little, trying to hear her. A few men stood near her, listening and admiring. Tavington called to Belbo, and told him to keep a discreet watch, and make sure no one troubled her.

Pattie had a certain look in his eye. Tavington knew it well, and knew it presaged Pattie telling him a new idea of his, and trying to talk him round. Sure enough, his friend came over, pulled up a short stool and began his exposition.

"It's far too late in the year to sail north, but it seems to me that there are parts _south_ that could be of interest—"

"Pattie, the _Stargazer_ needs an overhaul, and the _Enterprise_---"

"Now, now," his friend soothed him. "There's no need to raise your hackles. Our Captain Barbara on the _Reliant_ is feeling a bit behindhand when the glory is being shared out, and she told me that she hoped she'd have her own chance soon."

Tavington sighed deeply. "Well, what it is?"

Pattie eyes shone with excitement. "The Cape Verde Islands!"

Tavington tried to picture a map, but the excellent wine, the cider, and the beer made it all a blur.

"Where?" he asked.

Exasperatingly, Pattie produced notes from his coat. Then, to Tavington's dismay, he actually started reading from them: latitude, longitude, area, climate. "—and they're rich in all sorts of things we need: building stone, clay—some first class kaolin for the potters—salt—"

"Salt, you say?" That was a consideration. If they could easily mine salt deposits, process them, and gate the products home, it would save room on their trading ships. And they went through salt so fast—

"Aye," Ferguson assured him. "A thousand miles south of us, past the Canaries, and about two hundred miles west of Africa, just like us. It's no colony I'm proposing there, d'ye ken--for it seems it's a bit dry---but no one lives there, and we could surely make use of what no one else seems to want! A lot of little islands, spread out over a hundred miles or so. We could send an surveying expedition."

It was not a bad idea, and Tavington promised to think it over. His attention was caught by Ron and Karen, now back at their instruments, and striking up a reel. Right now, he wanted to dance with his wife, and give her a little needed attention.

But even in the midst of the dance, people were wanting to talk to both of them: Reinhardt, DeJong, and their friends about an idea for yet another flying machine—an "ultralight." It sounded interesting, and they were told he would talk to them about it in the morning. He caught up with Diana, as they threaded through the other couples.

Markham was standing on the fringes, looking nervous. Tavington was about to make his apologies to his wife, when it became plain that the lieutenant wanted to speak to Diana, and not himself. She said a few words in an undertone to Markham, and he nodded, withdrawing.

"What was that about?" She smiled up at him. "He wants to talk to me about his bachelor quarters. He's very worried about whether his new wife will like living there."

Tavington gave an incredulous snort. "She'll probably think she's has been transported to Fairyland. She's never seen anything so good in her life!" He looked back at the end of the head table. The young woman was sitting quietly, sipping from a wineglass, looking wide-eyed about her.

"Be nice."

"I am. I suppose her maidservants will be living with them. Perhaps a bit of a squeeze."

Markham's quarters were in the basement level of the Town Hall, a floor below the Fergusons. The windows were large, and the place was bright enough, but he had only two rooms there: a small sitting room and a smaller bedroom. Tavington could not remember the last time he had been in them, but recalled that they were decently, if sparsely furnished, and that Markham kept them rather like most junior officers kept their quarters, when there was no woman to maintain order. Was there a bathroom on that floor?--yes—one had been put in. The rest of that floor was being used for storage. Perhaps some of the space could be rearranged. He smirked briefly, imagining Markham teaching a gaggle of young Irishwomen how to use modern plumbing. How much Irish had he learned? Probably not nearly enough for _that. _

Both Greek and English were being spoken at the table they passed now. The Kolbs and their children were sitting across from Amyntor and Ptolemy. The Greeks' hands were wildly gesticulating; Dion was listening in fascination; and Lysis was quietly agreeing with all points of view. Nikeratos, still getting about with the aid of a cane, sat with them, but was insisting on speaking English with Alan and Herb. Herb's wife, young son, and elderly mother were at the table too, and seemed to follow most of the conversations fairly well. Herb's young female graduate students joined in the talk enthusiastically: to the scandal of some of the men, and the delight of others. Merianis was not there, but at the next table with other medics, her English accented but understandable.

Further on sat some of the Numenoreans who had sailed over for the night. Aulus Meridius Agricola was there with Janie. His English was improving by leaps and bounds; probably because he was living with a woman who spoke not a word of Latin. He was conversing seriously with Haley. _Well on his way to becoming one of their foremost citizens, it seems. _

He wondered where Serapion was. Their Alexandrian friend was making himself useful, in his smooth way. He had never known anyone so good at fitting in. And now— There he was: _dancing,_ of all things. He had been bemused last month at his first sight of men and women dancing together. At length, he had quoted Herodotus. "_Custom,"_ he said, "_is king_." He must have persuaded someone to give him dancing lessons, for he was partnering Lesley Urquhart, and very creditably, too. The man's loyalties were ambiguous, but he could be of great use in their new embassy in Rome, and even more in the one they soon hoped to establish in Alexandria.

The dance over, Diana went to advise Markham, and Tavington returned to the head table. Polly was talking with Pattie about the embassy.

"Now that there's a house in Rome, I wouldn't mind going there myself. I've never fancied sea voyages."

Tavington sat down and agreed. "I think you'd enjoy it, properly protected. You don't have to see any Games, and you'd have all the comforts of home. At any rate, the Emperor would like us to have a physician visit the embassy on the Kalends and Ides of every month, and it would be a good time for the ambassador to be available. Perhaps the embassy could throw a party someday."

"Someday," Pattie agreed skeptically. "But it might not be the kind of party they fancy—no _vomitoria_ (Polly made a face)—and no fights to the death."

"And no naked dancing girls!" Sally added over Polly's shoulder.

Pattie grumbled low to Tavington, "'Tis a sad life I lead."

Tavington smiled in mock sympathy, and glanced at the dancers, now slowed to a lilting waltz. His eye was arrested by a flushed, happy, familiar face: Emily, dancing with that Publius Vibius boy again. Diana should have a talk with her. And where had the boy gotten new clothes? He looked almost respectable, in boots, breeches, and a long brown coat of 18th century style. Yes, a serious conversation was _definitely_ in order.

-----

Dawn lightened the eastern sky _just too early_ the next morning. Tavington fumbled for a pillow and covered his face. The place next to him in bed was empty. He listened, and heard Diana's gentle voice crooning to the baby. After awhile, the infant's little noises quieted, and he felt his wife slip back into bed.

Immediately, he tossed the pillow aside, and turned on his side to wrap an arm around her. It was a cool morning, and he nestled close to the comfortable warmth of his wife's soft back.

"Good morning," she murmured, and he heard the smile in her voice.

"And to you, Princess of Atlantis."

"How is your head?"

"Manageable. I didn't drink _that_ much." He pressed closer, and she sighed with pleasure."But I wouldn't mind a restful morning in our bed."

It was not particularly restful, but quite agreeable, as they hit on an easy position that would tax neither of them. Her leg draped over his, partly on their sides, making her open and available to his touch. She retrieved his discarded pillow and used it to muffle her cries. Little people had keen ears, and he did not want another round of questioning from his children, wondering, "Is Mommy hurt?"

And they were just in time, for they were tidying themselves when they heard the sound of small feet out of bed and running about. Tavington growled, "It's still too early," and dived back under the covers.

Diana patted his shoulder, got up, and found her robe. She left the room to track the children down, considerately closing the door behind her. Tavington promptly fell asleep once more.

It was full sunlight before he awakened again. A pleasantly slow day followed: a bit of late breakfast scrounged from their commissary downstairs; a look-in at his office; a ride out to the airfield with Bordon (Pattie was still asleep), and a talk with the pilots, who had slept late themselves, what with the party and then staying up all night talking. Lt. DeJong and her hangar chief, Higgins, had stopped for the night with Reinhardt and his family. They called in some more friends—a machinist and a pair of engineers, and laid their design before Tavington.

An "ultralight, " it seemed, was a very small airplane, which could be used to hop about the island, carrying small amounts of cargo: parcels, messages. It did not require a long runway, and would be a means of connecting their lookout posts without having to build a network of roads around their mountainous island. They also had plans for an ultralight helicopter, which Tavington thought even more practical, since it could land nearly anywhere.

Once started on their favorite subject, the aviators talked about other craft that could be built: parasails, gliders, dirigibles. Tavington did not understand the last term at all, and was treated to pictures of a long, gas-filled craft that could be made very big indeed, and that could carry large numbers of people. Unfamiliar names and terms were thrown at him: _Graf Zeppelin, Hindenburg,_ blimp, helium vs. hydrogen.

He stayed longer than he planned: Bordon wanted to hear more about the history of lighter-than-air craft, and they were taken all the way back to their own 18th century and the Montgolfier brothers.

Hearing some of the accounts of early flight, Bordon remarked, "The problem with such devices is that we are on a small island, surrounded by the ocean. A balloon could easily be blown out to sea, and then you would have a disaster."

Higgins recommended a novel, _Mysterious Island_, by Jules Verne, which told of the adventures of soldiers who survived just such an adventure, and the talk turned to novels, and the Frenchman Verne and the development of the science-fiction genre, and then to movies based on the novels of Verne. Bordon wondered aloud if Diana had one of the films in the Library.

"I'll bet we've got a copy of _Around the World in Eighty Days_!" Ashley sounded certain, and then Mrs. Reinhardt thought she had seen the title _Journey to the Center of the Earth_ listed.

It was all very amusing and interesting, and then they had some sandwiches, and then Tavington asked more about hang-gliders; so it was late in the afternoon by the time they dragged themselves away to return home.

Bordon was much in favor of the new aircraft. "I know that we can use time gates for such things, but our medical people keep insisting that there should be a limit to their use for health reasons. And we should have alternative means anyway. I realize that it is an amazing, miraculous invention—but what if the machines were damaged, what if we could not depend upon it? It seems wise to me to diversify."

Tavington agreed. He was still thinking about Ferguson's scheme for the Cape Verde Islands, and told Bordon about it. "It is a risk, of course, whenever we send a ship anywhere. We could let the scientists calculate a drop point, and send in a volunteer, as we did in the initial expedition here, but I'm told it is very dangerous. It would be best to sail to our destination, and then choose a favorable spot for a gate, so one can be sure there are no trees, or boulders, or—natives—in the way. Traveling to an uninhabited island, of course, we would not need to send a large crew. Just the sailors themselves, and some people to set up a base camp and radio the gate coordinates."

"A sound plan. Eventually, of course, we will outgrow this island. I understand the reservations our friends have about dispossessing native peoples—I never thought the Colonists in our own time to be dealing fairly with the Indians—but from my reading it appears that there are many uninhabited places in our world, and we should consider them fair game."

Tavington smiled. Bordon often anticipated his own thoughts. "There is Bermuda, of course. It's small, though, and is hit by hurricanes fairly often. Michael is still opposed to the Azores, though I think knowing that there will be an earthquake in say, three hundred years, should be no bar to settlement. After all, one can prepare somewhat. But we can go farther afield. I have been thinking about the island of Mauritius. It would be an ideal place to grow sugar."

Bordon laughed, "I remember. The one with the Dodo birds that were killed off. Justin Lakiotis uses it as an example of destroying the environment."

"Well," said Tavington. "_We_ would know better than to slaughter all the ridiculous creatures. I still see no reason that we could not inhabit the island. After all, our biologists are quite agog here in New Atlantis, cataloguing all the wildlife. Apparently the Portuguese wiped out all sorts of fauna when they arrived. I flatter myself that we are better stewards."

"Just so," Bordon assented. The horses trotted faster, seeing their stables. His captain was still thinking, and remarked, "Of course, there are the great empty islands of Madagascar and New Zealand. The latter particularly appeal to me: about the size of Britain, and with a temperate climate."

"And since seeing _The Lord of the Rings_, they seem familiar to us!" added Tavington with a laugh.

"They certainly are magnificent."

At a distance, they could see that there was activity on the back steps of the Town Hall. People were there, carrying large objects. Tavington and Bordon dismounted and turned their horses over to the dragoon on duty. As they walked back home, they could see that the people were carrying boxes and furniture.

"I daresay that our new Princess is making alterations in Markham's quarters," Tavington said wryly.

They discovered though, that it was Diana, not young Ceindrych, who was supervising the changes. She looked rather harried, and gave her husband and his friend a nod as they entered the building.

"No, _that_ goes to the Library. There's no reason to keep any of that here anymore," she was saying.

Two men were edging past, carrying a big chest of drawers downstairs. Tavington and Bordon stepped out of their way, and then went over to Diana.

"I take it this is for Markham's new household?"

"Yes, they definitely need more space. Those three girls can't camp out in his living room forever. I had another room downstairs cleaned out, and Drew's bachelor bedroom furniture moved into it for the maids. I thought he and Ceindrych should have something a little better of their own. There isn't a great deal left of the inventory we brought along, but I still found something quite nice for the happy couple. And they needed all sorts of other things as well."

Sally came running upstairs, face red with mirth. "You won't like this, Diana, but you know those sheets you gave her—"

"What now?"

"She and her maidservants are cutting them up—I think for shifts. You shouldn't have given her the sheets and the sewing basket at the same time!"

"Oh, dear."

Seeing her husband's amused expression, she shrugged. "Well, I'm sure they'll make very nice shifts, and they definitely need more clothing. I'll just take them some more sheets, and make the bed myself."

A crowd of children exploded down the stairs, followed by a weary-looking Ferguson. Iris ran to her father, hugged his legs, and declared, "I want to see the Princess! They won't let me help!"

"Well," said Tavington taking each of his children in hand, "You can come downstairs with me. I'd like to see what your mother has wrought."

Bordon thought it was time for him to go home. "I'll leave you to the domestic arrangements. I've hardly seen Clytie all day," he said, and headed upstairs.

It was just as well that he did not try to join them, for the crush was even greater down in Markham's quarters. All the youth of the Town Hall were there: Emily, trying to communicate with the youngest of the Irish girls: Zachary and Christopher Seevers, cheerfully lending a hand to Markham, as he mounted his weapons on a wall. Some of the soldiery were assembling a big and handsomely carved bed in Markham's bedroom. Two of the Irishwomen were sitting primly on the edge of Markham's small leather sofa, busily pinning together what indeed looked like shifts.

Markham's wife was watching the comings and goings with an excited expression. Clutched in her hands was a large workbasket with an embroidered lid. She saw Diana and went to her, anxious to tell her something.

The children spilled into the room. Annie Ferguson plumped down next to one of the maids, who gave her a sweet smile.

Markham broke off from pounding hooks in the wall, and called out to Diana, "Ceindrych wants to say thank you again for the sewing things. She thinks they're beautiful!"

"Thank you. Thank you," the girl repeated earnestly. She opened the box, and fondly admired the contents. "Beautiful."

Diana took her by the hand, and said clearly, "You're welcome. We are so happy that Drew brought a wife home with him. I hope you'll both be very happy."

Markham translated haltingly, and the girl blushed and smiled.

Fearless little Annie was introducing herself loudly to the Irish girl beside her, and elicited a response in kind. Tavington thought the name sounded like "Gruoch," but was not entirely sure. Annie, with the ease of extreme youth, appeared to repeat it to the girl's satisfaction.

Polly appeared, carrying something on a drapery pole. She asked Diana, "Is this the one you meant?"

Diana turned back a bit of the fabric. "Yes, I think that will look very nice in here."

It was a Tree-of-Life patterned tapestry, in the richest hues of blue and red and green. Markham, with his hammer, was pulled over to the other side of the room, and the hanging was soon adorning the wall. Everyone seemed to like it. Markham's desk was moved, and atable with a "barley twist" design and its matching chairs arrived and was placed appropriately.

Sally appeared, another load of linen in her arms, and she went into the bedroom with Diana to make the now-complete bed. Seeing them at work, Ceindrych ran to her wooden coffer, and pulled out the wolfskin coverlet that Michael had told Tavington about. She arranged it on the bed, and stood back admiring. Diana offered her own compliments, which the girl seemed to understand the sense of.

The smallest of the children were running about, looking at everything in the rooms, then running into the maids' new room to stare at their things. Ferguson started herding them to the door. "That's enough, now. Let the poor lasses settle in a wee bit." Tavington followed his lead, and introduced little Iris to Ceindrych before shepherding her out and upstairs. Diana had the situation well in hand.

Another pair of soldiers came downstairs, delivering a big blanket chest with a leather-cushioned top for seating. Tavington and Ferguson got the little ones out of their way, and Tavington proposed they take the children for a walk.

"I'd be glad of one," Ferguson said feelingly. "A bit of air will clear my head."

With Will and Iris, and Annie and Jamie, their progress was slow. They dawdled through the flower beds, and then through the garden plots. Tavington realized that they were heading to the greenhouses, but did not want to be the one to say they should turn back. Besides, they saw Jennifer, and the children ran down the path to her to say hello.

She really was in very good spirits, and took the children to see her plumeria, now in full bloom. It was wonderfully fragrant, a clinging, voluptuous scent that permeated that corner of the building. Jennifer picked two white-and-yellow blossoms, and tucked one each behind a little girl's ear. The children wanted to admire the exotics, the cacao trees and the one precious vanilla. Supervising them from a distance, Tavington remarked that it was a pity they could not grow them outdoors.

Jennifer shook her head. "It's just not the right ecosystem. A shame, really, because chocolate could be a big cash crop for us, if we had a real plantation. It would have to be farther south, though."

"Interesting that you mention going south, my dear," replied Ferguson. "I was just trying to persuade our Colonel here to send the _Reliant_ down to the Cape Verde Islands."

"Really?" Jennifer was struck by this. "Really?" she turned to Tavington, "Do you think you're going to?"

"Well, yes—very likely. I'm told there's salt and clay there. It certainly sounds worth our time—so after some study—"

"Wait here!" Jennifer cried, and ran into her office. Surprised, Tavington and his friend looked at each other, and a moment later Jennifer reappeared, carrying a heavy, green-covered volume. She was pink with excitement, and told them, "If the ship went a little farther, there's a place that would be just right for our cacaos—and for sugar, too!"

Interested, Tavington turned the book so he could see it. It was a mumbo-jumbo of technical terms, so Jennifer interpreted. "I know we've decided not to displace any native peoples, but there is this island that mainly produced chocolate and sugar back in the 21st century. Here—" she pointed to the reference. "—Sao Tome. It's nearly as big as New Atlantis! And there's another smaller island, Principe, nearby. They're a hundred miles from Africa and were discovered by the Portuguese just like our islands here. Nobody lives there now. Nobody even set foot on the islands until the 15th century. And they're perfect for chocolate—a good tropical canopy to filter the light. There are some clear areas to the north for sugar. And I could grow cinnamon and vanilla there too! I could grow pepper and even some rubber! It would be a huge outdoor Conservatory—and all for us!"

She leafed back to the front of the book. There was a world map, and the tiny islands were just visible. Ferguson was asking more questions, and Tavington studied the map thoughtfully. It would make the _Reliant's_ journey twice as long, but it could pay tremendous dividends.

He gave Jennifer a slow smile, and she blushed furiously. Remembering himself, he observed lightly, "A marvelous idea, if we can put it into practice. Sao Tome—an odd name."

Ferguson shrugged, and asked Jennifer's permission to take the volume so he could examine it more closely. "No need to use the names if we dinna like them. Why not name them ourselves—the Chocolate Islands?"

"Chocolate Islands?" smiled Jennifer shyly. "They sound like a fairy tale."

Tavington smiled back. "Sometimes, the most fantastic stories are the truest ones."

-----

**Notes:** There is nothing anachronistic about Tavington's 18th century men anticipating a barbecue. The word was known in 18th century America.

Treadle spinning wheels were not invented until around the 14th century A.D. There were hand-driven ones a few hundred years earlier, though, first in India and China.

The Romans didn't use weeks. The Kalends were the first of the month and the Ides the fifteenth.

**Next:** The concluding chapter of **Tavington's Atlantis. **


	27. Tavington's Atlantis, part 10

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination.

And now, the adventure concludes.

**Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 10**

**The Past is Prologue: November 150—May 151 **

The Cape Verde Islands were not unattractive, Tavington decided. There were stunning sea views, there were pristine white beaches. It would be easy to be seduced into thinking them yet another island paradise. And so they were, unless taxed too heavily by greedy humans. A fragile paradise, in fact: soil a little too thin; a little too easily exhausted.

Jack Gronewald guessed that ordinary cultivation might work for fifty years or so, before severe erosion compromised productivity. "You just can't cut the tree cover in these islands," he told Tavington, shaking his head. "The islands are too low and have too little rainfall. The regrowth rate would be too slow. We could come in and rape them for a generation, and then we'd see the effects pretty quickly. And any of our people who had come to depend on land holdings here would be screwed."

"Then it's clear that we cannot offer property on these islands for agriculture," Tavington shrugged. He had really not expected more. Ferguson's assessment, based on his researches at their Library, had been supported by scientific data gathered on the spot. The salt and clay deposits, however, were all they had hoped.

There it stood, until the survey crew's report was publicly disseminated. At the next Committee meeting, they were approached by the Forerunners.

Forerunners, Ltd. was a partnership established by—not surprisingly, four runners—four of the original workmen who had helped build New Atlantis and had hidden there to avoid being sent back to the hell of the labor camps in the 21st century. Three had been tracked down before the final Jump into the past. They had been offered the opportunity to stay with the Project, and had accepted. Two of them had had families: one a wife, a baby, and a sister; the other a mother and a younger brother. They had been brought into the Project and were prospering. The third had had no one and nothing, and thus nothing to lose by joining the other time travelers. He had gained a home, a family, and more.

Tavington found the fourth, Lee Park, the most interesting of all. He was a highly educated man: an engineer, condemned to hard labor for speaking out against the brutality of his politically powerful employer. His family had renounced him to save themselves. Park had hidden cleverly in the mountains of New Atlantis, and had shown great resourcefulness, successfully evading their patrols for over a year. He might have never been found, but Markham had stumbled upon him quite by accident during a routine training exercise. The dragoon's rations had proved too great a temptation to a man living off wild birds and a few edible plants. They had surprised him and run him down. No one was particularly angry with him: simply full of wonder to come across Robinson Crusoe on their own island. When he finally realized that no one intended to send him back to a labor camp, the man had fainted with relief. He had been assigned work, and a flat to be shared with another runner.

Tavington had not heard or thought of the man until recently, when he and his friends had formed their own construction company. It was they who had built the lookout cabins around the islands, doing quick, efficient, and reliable work. As the population grew, and more of the settlers wanted to build on their own property, Forerunners stepped forward to design and build any kind of dwelling: bartering, dealing, and somehow managing to make a little profit.

Lee Park and his partners asked to speak at the Committee meeting that day. For they wanted land on the Cape Verde Islands, but not to farm. "This stretch on Salt Island has not just salt, but limestone and gypsum," Park pointed out. "If we produce our own building stone, concrete, and cement, and gate them back home, we'll have good building materials that will result in fewer trees being cut for construction."

The rest of the presentation was equally matter of fact. Tavington was favorably impressed, and rearranged his own plans for a log house to a wood-framed one handsomely faced with stucco. It would suit the climate, he decided, and look very civilized. He could have a more classical design, even…

But that could wait. With some dickering, and with the civil authority of New Atlantis receiving its due share of the proceeds, the Forerunners were allowed to take a portion of their land grants in the rights to the designated parcels of property in the Cape Verde Islands. They were not alone: their glassmakers had wanted the rights to some fine white quartz sand along the coast of another island, the potters needed the kaolin. The scientists laid down the strict and predictable protections for the environment, but otherwise the arrangements went smoothly.

It had surprised Tavington, but not everyone wanted his or her full land grant. He identified wealth and security with owning land, but others did not feel the same. And so one of Paul Seevers' legal tasks was to work out just settlements: in place of 500 acres, perhaps 200 acres and rights to a shop, or 10 acres and a factory concession, or 100 acres and a new boat, or 200 acres and some dairy animals. People's needs were unique, and only a fraction of the settlers had so far presented their requests to the Committee. Some of the scientists did not need land at the present time, and intended to transfer their own rights to their children when those children's needs became known. So in the meantime, some Atlanteans had only asked for an acre or two, or a bit of beach, or a house property with a building of some sort. Paul worked through these complicated arrangements, amassing a body of legal precedents as he did so.

And in a day or two, the _Reliant _would reach the newly-named Chocolate Islands. Now _there_ was a place that might arouse a land-fever. Practically dead on the equator, richly fertile; a land for growing crops that would be the agricultural equivalent of a gold mine. If he hadn't loathed hot weather, Tavington would have wanted some property there himself.

-----

Jennifer wanted to start the trees at least ten years in the past. She had trays of little seedlings already putting out tiny leaves under her growing lights. The survey team was told to stay on the coastal areas. She, Jack, and the biology team would do their own assessment of the island, and select areas to planted with cacao and vanilla, with nutmeg and cloves, with cinnamon, with rubber trees, and up in the hills, some coffee.

In the course of a week's stay, they would tend the seedlings with a rapid series of gates, first at weekly intervals, which would lengthen to monthly, and then yearly visits, and hope there had been no devastating storms in the past ten years. Once the trees had ten years' growth, they would open up the island for the other surveyors, and allow permanent structures to be built. If all went well.

A carefully designed settlement, with a processing facility for the crops, was planned. Luckily, all these products, once processed, would keep for long periods. Long enough to be sent home to New Atlantis. Long enough for journeys by sea, or to be discreetly gated to their ships in whichever port proved an especially good market.

All in all, New Atlantis was prospering in every material sense. Had it been an ordinary colony of his own time, Tavington would have been entirely satisfied with their well-ordered little world. Indeed, he _was_ entirely satisfied, but for the obvious fact that many of the prominent Committee members, including his own wife, felt they still had far to go.

"Will," explained his wife a few nights before Christmas, "if trade and money were everything, we could grow a huge crop of opium and coca, get the world addicted to heroin and cocaine, and rake in obscene profits. People would sell themselves into _slavery_ to us to get their fixes. Or we could grow tobacco, and get people addicted to _that._ But profit is not what we are about. It's not what _I_ am about. I've had enough of greedy fascist exploiters. We left to get away from them." She pushed her hair back from her brow in a weary gesture. "And I really would rather die than become one of them."

Concerned, he answered quite seriously. "I beg you not to imagine that I care for nothing but money. It is, however, a tangible measure of our success in establishing a comfortable existence for all our people. And there is this: the greater our wealth, the greater our reputation, and the more credible our claims to moral and intellectual authority. If we wish to influence this world, we must present ourselves as superior to them in a way they can understand."

"We're not superior—" his wife began helplessly. "I mean, our value as human beings is not greater than theirs. We have the advantage of two thousands years of history. It's not due to our own cleverness. We just know more than they do."

"_Of course_ we do," agreed Tavington, happy to find a point of agreement. "And we are all in accord that this knowledge should be used for the betterment of the world at large. The question remains: how best to use our two thousand years of collective wisdom?"

The discussions continued, at the meetings and at dinner, in the Square, and on horseback, roaming the ravishing countryside of their little Eden. They continued on visits to the Cape Verde Islands, and finally on Big Chocolate (or Hot Chocolate, Tavington wryly termed it), the larger of their two new islands. Everyone had an opinion. But most thought that education, of one sort or another, was key.

Gretchen, stimulated by her semi-monthly visits to their new embassy in Alexandria, was strongly of the opinion that a medical school was absolutely a first priority. She, with her assistants, could treat only a limited number of patients. And the Alexandrian physicians were hounding her with questions, complaints, challenges. They wanted to observe, and there was only one of her. Mark and Carolyn, who ran the clinic two days a month out of Atlantis House in Rome, had exactly the same experiences.

"We need to set up an organized curriculum, and it will have to be in New Atlantis, where the facilities are best," was the final summation Mark gave the Committee.

It would mean bringing outsiders to New Atlantis, and allowing them to live among them for some time. Some simple lodgings were built for them: comfortable, and with decent sanitation, but with no electrical devices to bemuse the uninitiated. They would be served meals in the commissary, at different times than the regular inhabitants. Certain restrictions must be applied: their maps, their navigation, their weapons would have to be made secure.

Once that was achieved, a small number of students—perhaps five from each of the two cities—could be admitted. The applicants would be interviewed, screened, and would have to be approved. It would take years of study--of English, of basic literacy and numerancy skills, of elementary hygiene, before they could progress to the advanced topics that would bring them to the level even of say, decent nurse-practitioners. But it must be undertaken. The medical staff hoped to have their plans ready soon.

Meanwhile, Ferguson negotiated a partnership with a reputable pottery business in Rome. The no-slavery clause was a deal-breaker in some cases. Most Romans could not wrap their minds around the alien concept of eschewing slave labor altogether. And yet Ferguson would casually bring in marvels of Atlantean pottery, of superior hardness and thinness, with glorious glazes, and painted exquisitely. There were promises of lucrative contracts. Perhaps—even if they had to pay their laborers, they could make a profit from the superior wares they would produce.

In the end, the first partnership was formed with a family business. The potters were a man, his three sons, and two nephews. His unmarried daughters worked desultorily in the business, as did his married daughters and their husbands. The family owned slaves, but they were domestic servants, and the terms of the contract were well-known enough that it was not worthwhile to cheat. If they did, disgruntled rivals were certain to tattle. The contract began with roof and floor tiles. Atlantean potters visited, sharing nuggets of new technologies. They wanted to know these people and trust them before they told them anything more.

The next innovation was the introduction of flush toilets, which were made with the assistance of Roman plumbers. When this step was taken, the Atlanteans insisted on copper pipes, to the Romans' puzzlement. It was explained that lead pipes were a health hazard. It took quite a lot of persuading, but gradually the Romans were unhappily convinced that they had been poisoning their own water supply. Shortly thereafter, there was something of a dust-up at the Flavian Palace, as the entire plumbing system was ripped out, and replaced with shining copper. And shortly thereafter, further enhanced with the talked-about flush toilets.

-----

Marcus Aurelius returned from a brief journey to the German border, to find a number of changes in Rome. Some were subtle changes, and some, like the elegant new "water closets" installed in his own apartments, were arresting. He was a Roman, and approved of engineering innovations that would further public health.

But these were only symptoms of larger forces at work. The Atlanti were having a profound affect on his people. Once again, he considered the idea that they were gods. They appeared human, and had human needs and desires—and yet…

He and Demochares had discussed it over and over again. Demochares, after some thought, went back, as he often did, to the classics. "I think we should entirely review our interpretations of the _Iliad and Odyssey_—and nearly all tales of the gods and goddesses."

"How so?"

"Consider this, Caesar: the Atlanti say they came from another world. It is evident from their city that they have been in our world only a few years. They have awesome powers over matter, over distance, and over light itself. They wish to influence our world. How then, do they differ from the gods of Olympus, who also appeared to be human, had human needs and desires—sometimes excessively so—and meddled for hundreds of years in the affairs of mortals?"

"The Atlanti do not claim to be immortal, but I think I see what you mean." He did. These powerful beings, transplanted to Earth, were certainly as meddlesome as the Olympians. They did not demand worship, true: but they behaved as if respect was due them. And the consequences of defying them were catastrophic. "Perhaps the gods of years past could also have been visitors from another place. And they might have behaved differently in dealing with the primitive peoples they found themselves among. These Atlanti, finding us civilized, treat us accordingly."

They were not _God_: the mysterious driving force of the universe; but they might well be _gods_: beings with a stronger spark of divinity than the ordinary run of men.

And they were present in the city. Certainly, at least two days a month there was activity in the house given them. Their physicians, Marcus Magliorus and his wife Carolina, were performing marvels. There was talk of accepting pupils at a school of medicine on their island. Verguso was about the city, he and his men vividly scarlet in their splendid garments, as they met with craftsmen eager to learn the secrets of the Atlanti.

Another thing disturbed him. He had had the distinct impression that the Atlanti _knew_ about him: about him personally. When their prince had first laid eyes on him, he had looked as one who recognizes a familiar face. Perhaps this was part of their divine nature. And they had chosen the Romans to visit: not the Parthians, not the Germans, not the faraway peoples of India. Which suggested that they _liked_ the Romans, and wished to help them.

-----

They called the season winter, but it really had little meaning in the mild climate of New Atlantis. The weather remained pleasant, only raining more frequently and heavily. Whether observing Christmas or simply the winter solstice itself, the Atlanteans had a long period of pleasant celebrations: a school concert, a Yule ball, a screening of "A Christmas Carol," and a film Diana had not shown them before, "It's a Wonderful Life." The latter required more explanation than the former, but was still a touching story. And there was not a citizen of New Atlantis, but felt he or she had been given a second chance, just like George Bailey.

Tavington, himself, watching the scenes where George visits a world where his children had never been born, where his wife had never married, found himself reaching out to take Diana's warm hand in his. What if they had never met? He would have been rotting in a muddy hole in South Carolina, and she—it did not bear thinking of. He walked home with her later, quietly musing over the vagaries of fortune, and made ardent and tender love to her that night.

They were all very busy. Their new workmen were proving useful, whether processing cocoa, cutting cane, caring for their herds and flocks, or helping with needed construction. In the Laboratory, in the machine shops, among the craftsmen, thinking, creative people were learning to make do with the limitations of their new world.

The new aircraft were nearly complete and would soon be ready for tests. At the airfield, he greeted Lt. DeJong, over from Numenor for the day. She had great hopes for their new little ultralights, and hoped for bigger things eventually.

"Bill can fly, and we take turns sometimes with the Cessna, so he can keep his hand in, but I'd like to train more pilots. And for that we need more planes."

Tavington was on the point of suggesting that he himself might be a candidate, when she suddenly laughed. "I don't know if I ever told you about the expression on Agricola's face, the first time he had a good look at my plane. I think he's still a little afraid of it. And when he understood that I was the one flying it—well, he's never looked at me the same way again." More seriously, she added, "Traumatized by that day, probably. Sometimes I see him when I'm flying low over the island. He always stops to watch me, but he never comes to the airfield for a closer look."

"I thought you might have ferried him over the night of the party."

"Not him. He and Janie came over on the _Reliant_. He's nervous enough about motors, but the boat didn't seem as alien, I guess. Barb says he's a pretty good sailor, seeing him getting the hang of Janie's boat. He's caught on to modern sails, but the other stuff is just too much. But he's an OK guy otherwise. Anyway, Janie seems to like him."

Agricola was not the only one intimidated by modern inventions. All their old-timers were sometimes uneasy with aspects of their new life. Diana had quoted Clarke's Law one day on the subject, _"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." _

Very true. The young Irishwomen at the Town Hall had been very, very frightened by electric lights, by the mysteries of the sanitation system (Tavington supposed that they thought that waste products simply disappeared), and most of all by the Laboratory. However, Polly and Sally had taken them in hand, and now they spent a great deal of their time in the huge clothing workroom there. However awful they thought the rest of the building, here were wonders they could comprehend.

There were human powered devices there, as well as electrical ones. Among them was a treadle spinning jenny that could make six skeins of thread at the same time. One of the Irish girls, Fingula, was enchanted with it, and had learned to operate the device. Now they could hardly keep her away from it—not that they particularly wanted to. Sally and Polly thought spinning dull work. "Fingula's welcome to it!"

Caitlin was teaching Ceindrych to make bobbin lace, a skill that appeared tedious to Tavington, seeing the girl one day with the pillow and pattern on her lap, and the complex matrix of threads attached to a dozen wooden bobbins. He could not make head or tail of what she was doing, but she seemed to enjoy it.

For the rest, they were weaving, sewing, embroidering, knitting, mending. Sally had confided in Tavington that the young women's skills had been rudimentary at first, but they were making great progress in what they saw as proper and worthy work for women of their station. One hardly saw Ceindrych without her beloved sewing basket in her hands. It kept the women usefully occupied for much of the day, which was most satisfactory.

Their philosophers were adjusting to the new devices a little better. Ptolemy spent much of his time at the observatory with the Kolbs. Julie had presented advanced theories of optics to him in a way that helped him comprehend telescopes very, very quickly. In fact, he was a brilliant man, who was dealing with a revolution in theoretical physics. Tavington was no scientist himself, and understood only parts of the excited discussions among the Greeks. They talked, in a confusing mix of Greek and English about the theory of motion, about focal lengths, about the worlds of the very large and the very small (which Merianis brought up, dealing as she did with optics in the form of a very simple microscope that had been found for her in the collection of historical scientific instruments.)

Truth be told, he did not understand much of the science or mathematics himself. He and his 18th century soldiers knew the machines were not magic, not because they understood how they worked, but because they did not believe in magic. Hugh Bordon, with his degree from Cambridge, and Pattie Ferguson, with his training as a military engineer at Woolwich, understood far more than he. His own education was fairly sketchy in comparison, not much beyond the traditional Latin and Greek, and some half-forgotten geometry. It did not matter: there were specialists to deal with the knotty details.

-----

There was a tapping at their door. Diana murmured sleepily, "Is that you, Iris?"

"It's Hugh, Diana. I think Clytie's near her time."

Tavington groaned crossly, but rolled out of bed a moment after his wife. A message was dispatched for a doctor, and Diana threw on some clothes, took a slumbering little Jason with her, and crossed the upper terrace to sit with the girl. Tavington quickly got dressed himself, quietly brought his friend a drink, and they took up quarters in the sitting room. The 21's seem to expect fathers to be present at the birth of their children, but men of the 18th century failed to see anything appealing about that. Childbirth was women's business, and the business of trained midwives and doctors. None of them could see how they would be of any use, though they were willing to remain nearby, ready to welcome their children and offer their gratitude and comfort to their wives after the birth.

By breakfast time, the Hall was stirring. Will bounced out of his room ahead of Iris, announcing that he couldn't find his shoes. When appealed to, Emily declared that she had to hurry to get ready for school, and dashed away. Tavington looked briefly, gave up the search, and took the children downstairs barefoot, promising to bring back something for Bordon. While getting the children fed, he dutifully spread the gossip. Ferguson yawned and expressed sympathy. Paul Seevers dispensed lengthy advice, and then departed for his office. The women all magically disappeared upstairs, thankfully taking Bordon a tray of food.

Markham and his womenfolk arrived shortly thereafter, and Tavington shared the latest news. Markham's women, the situation explained to them, ate a hasty meal and vanished as well.

Their housekeepers, the Griffith sisters, were standing just outside the kitchen door, glaring at them, wanting to get busy clearing the mess of dirty plates. Tavington took the broad hint, and decided to go upstairs as well and bear his friend company. Ferguson and Markham had duties to attend to, and left; with Markham seeking Pattie's advice about a house he intended to build on his land, and the best design for making a houseful of women comfortable.

_Well, Pattie would know about a houseful of women! _

His quarters revealed a scene of happy disorder: Berenike was attempting to supervise the mob of children, and was telling them a favorite story. Bordon was in his own sitting room, he was informed, and all the rest of the women were inthe Bordon'sbedchamber, hovering.

As he entered through the French doors, he heard a low, mysterious chant.

Bordon looked up, and smiled ruefully. "Ceindrych and her women are apparently trying to persuade the baby out by means of a charm."

Tavington laughed, and found a chair at the little table where his friend was busily working. "Designing a house?"

Bordon shrugged, "An amusement for an idle hour. It might be pleasant to have a little place of my own with a fine view of the sea…I could have a vineyard, or raise sheep. Or both."

"It does sound pleasant. For myself, I would like to breed horses, with perhaps a sideline in apples—and apple brandy."

"The horses we've seen are hardly better than scrubs." Bordon agreed. "Ours are far superior." He sat back in his chair. "Clytie talks about bee-keeping someday. She once belonged to an estate famous for its honey."

There was a hoarse moan from beyond the closed door. Bordon sighed. "Poor girl."

"She'll be a very happy girl, when the worst is over."

"Yes. She's needed a child of her own. Polly's been trying to get her to work on her baby linen, but Clytie is not much inclined to sewing. She was not taught it from childhood, like most women."

"Having the little one about will no doubt be an inspiration."

"Possibly."

Time ticked away. Bordon started another design, and Tavington found himself a book, _Swiss Family Robinson._ As the sun warmed the terrace, they moved out of doors. The shadows were shortening, and it was nearly noon when Polly came to get them.

In the crowded, close room, smelling of blood and women, Diana laid a small bundle in Bordon's arms. "You have a little daughter, Hugh."

"And a tough little wife," said Gretchen. "She'll be all right."

Clytie smiled weakly, and put out her arms for the baby. Tavington heard her anxious whisper, "You are not angry? It is only a girl."

"I am delighted, my dear. She is a beautiful child, and we shall call her Briseis, just as you wished."

"And we will keep her? Yes?"

Sally and Polly exchanged a pitying look. Diana was murmuring explanations to Ceindrych and her maids, who were full of questions about the significance of the name.

"Of course, of course, my dear. She is our child, and she will have the best of everything."

Outside the room, a crowd of children gathered, wanting to see the baby. Bordon sat with his wife, while she held the little mite close. Tavington thought it time to give his formal congratulations, and beat a retreat.

"A pretty child," he smiled. "May she be as happy and healthy as she is lovely." He bowed to his friends, and catching his wife's eye, whispered, "I'm off to the barracks, to look over the duty roster. Don't let them wear you out."

She smiled, and kissed him lightly, and then touched his arm in farewell. As he left, he heard her, gently admonishing the children to come in one at a time and to be _quiet_ while they were admiring the baby.

----

They had a special celebration for Emily's sixteenth birthday in mid-February. To Tavington's disgust, Publius Vibius was in attendance, brought by Marianne, who sometimes took a little pleasure in irritating him. Perhaps it was not just that, he admitted to himself. She had taken a genuine maternal interest in the boy, who was really too old to formally adopt, and had given him work, and a place to live, and guidance. The boy dutifully attended every session of their adult school at night that he possible could, and had learned to make himself useful. He was much like any of the other boys, clothed the same, sharing the same jokes—only far handsomer. And Emily liked him.

But Emily, thankfully, had other concerns: concerns that would keep her from too-early entanglements. She had announced her desire to become a teacher—a teacher of little children, she explained. This would involve a minimum of three additional years of schooling, and a year as an apprentice teacher. Diana was pleased and proud, and told Emily how important such work was, with the growth of their population, and the huge increase in school-age children that was coming their way in the next few years.

Looking at the girl at the party, Tavington felt a certain pride himself. Emily was perhaps a little too serious, sometimes a bit overbearing with the other children, but she was a nice girl, with a good heart. Diana had been right to give her all the advantages of a home with them, and the girl had been a great help to them: acting the part of a true sister to the little ones, and repaying all Diana's affection in kind. And her decision to teach was agreeable too: very proper, very genteel—a ladylike vocation for their foster daughter.

His satisfaction must have been apparent, for Pattie looked amused as he came over to chat. Tavington was surprised to see him. Pattie had paid his regular visit to Rome, and had not returned this morning, as he usually did. They had received a radio message that they were having an emergency meeting and would come back as soon as possible.

"The very picture of a proud father. She's a fine lass, and you've done well. Now all you have to do is marry her off. A pity Jamie's a _wee_ bit too young---"

Tavington laughed. "Just a bit. I thought you weren't coming. What did the Romans want?"

"Not the Romans. Just as we were about to return, a pair of priests from Epidauros came pounding on the door, begging us to admit them to the medical school. They seemed earnest, decent men, and they'd traveled all the way from Greece to see us. I couldna find it in me to tell them to come back in two weeks, so I let them in, and had Mark and Carolyn talk to them. The upshot was that they were told to go back to the temple where they were staying, fetch their gear, and they could come with us."

"They're here?" Tavington looked about the room.

"Well, not _here_. I didna think them appropriately dressed for a young lady's coming-out. They're at the guest lodgings for the night, and were told not to go wandering. It was a good thought to build them—and build them as simple as possible. Mark will take them to breakfast in the morning, and then they'll be given the Grand Tour. Poor buggers."

Tavington snorted, and then smiled as Emily saw them and waved. She was very fond of Pattie, and obviously glad that he had not missed her special night. They went over to her, so Pattie could tender his best compliments on her looks and the auspicious occasion. She did look very well in white, quite as she should. Diana was sitting with a little cluster of other matrons who had infants to care for, looking very well and happy herself. The little children were at the party too, but kept in a special corner of their own, with different women taking turns watching them, and teaching the dances to those children who wanted to learn. Luckily, the music was loud enough to cover the majority of the squealing.

Emily was asked to dance, and Tavington could continue his conversation with his friend. "Well, they're the first arrivals, but Gretchen has a group of five that will be arriving a few days. Once the rest of the Roman contingent arrives, our medical school will have its first class. Let's hope all goes well."

-----

And so, they soon had another group of old-timers to acclimate to their new surroundings: nine men and three women. Things went well—eventually, but there were difficulties to be overcome. This group was more cohesive—or at least cohesive along gender lines. A few of them had trouble with the food, which was richer than they were accustomed to. Some of them appeared to be having second thoughts. One of the women was suffering from extreme culture shock, and nearly "washed-out" (as Carolyn expressed it) within the first week.

Treated with great kindness and understanding, she managed to adjust, and began to catch up with her fellows. They were given a combination of classroom and clinical training, and at length were on their way to establishing a _modus vivendi_. Merianis, as a more advanced student, was of great assistance. But it was none of Tavington's affair, really, and he wished the medics all success from a safe distance.

More pressing was planning their voyage to Ireland. Captain Aherne thought they could leave by late March. Many, many Atlanteans were anxious to hear about Kathleen. Speculations abounded as to her health and safety, and her success in dealing with the natives on her own. Markham felt strongly that he should return, and to Tavington's surprise, announced that his wife wanted to go along.

"Well, sir," he expostulated, responding to Tavington's surprise. "Naturally she wants to see her family again. And I think it's for the best. That way her brother doesn't imagine that she's been sold into slavery, or murdered, or—eaten. I don't know. It just seems like a good idea. She can tell them how great it is, and how everyone's been so nice to her. And she wants to show her sister-in-law—the King's wife—her sewing box. I don't think she likes her much. I found out," he confided with a slight blush, "that is was the sister-in-law's idea to marry Ceindrych off to me. They didn't get along, and the woman wanted her out of the house. And there we were, so it could be done with no loss of status, and Ceindrych would be completely out of the picture. Lucky for me, Ceindrych wanted to get away herself. She really likes it here. But she wants to show them her new clothes and her new things, and that she doesn't need them anymore."

"As long as she doesn't start a fight, Lieutenant," Tavington said in some alarm. "The point is to establish _peaceful_ relations with these Hibernians."

"I know that, sir. Ceindrych knows that. She just wants to show off a little."

"And if you see any good prospects for settlers, try to persuade them to push their fortunes here. We've decided to offer small holdings to any immigrants who commit themselves to us for five years of satisfactory work. That might appeal to some."

So the plans were in motion, and by the end of March the _Stargazer_ stood out from the port of New Atlantis and headed north on its week-long voyage to Cork Harbor.

"They don't call it that, of course, Aherne told me, " said Lesley Urquhart at the regular Committee meeting. "Something more like "Coraigh." And there's no town in the harbor. The island is completely bare, and somewhat marshy. But we know it can support good foundations, because the town of Cobh was located on the island in our own time. If Kathleen is all right, and if our agreement still holds, we should be able to put up a decent dock. We'd like some other buildings as well—a warehouse, a shelter, and maybe a market, too. We'll have to see how it goes."

She was preparing for her next voyage to the Mediterranean. It would be another long cruise, hitting both Rome and Alexandria, but also some cities they had not visited on the last trip. Southern Italy, Sicily, and the islands of the Aegean were on the itinerary. They had learned that Rhodes was a very fine trading town. It would be impractical to set up gate sites in every town they wanted to visit, and for purposes of trade, it was just as easy to use the ship and the crew. And less disconcerting for the locals, of course.

Serapion was traveling with her, to make a formal report to his master, the Governor of Egypt, and to enjoy her company on the cruise. Herb Schultz was their man in Alexandria, when he emerged from their embassy there, and the Egyptians could make of it what they would. Likewise, Patrick Ferguson was making himself available on the prearranged dates in Rome. Since he was already thoroughly engaged with that duty, Bordon would command the marines on the _Enterprise._

Tavington anticipated no trouble with this cruise. They were regarded with fear and wonder by the Roman world. No one, other than the Emperor and his Caesars, might actually know the truth of what befell Marcus Vinicius and his invasion fleet, but it was known that he had meant to attack Atlantis, and it was known that neither he or his men had been seen or heard of since.

A new governor had been appointed, and the story circulated was that the fleet had been lost in a storm, but the awed gossip had trickled back to the Atlanteans. And eight days later, they had some welcome news.

-----

Other than a brief squall on the third night, their voyage had been without incident. When they at last sighted the familiar stretch of coast, Ceindrych and her servants had rushed to the deck, calling out excitedly, as they pointed to the landmarks. Standing closer in, and entering the mouth of the harbor, they were all struck with how different this place was from their own home: how big, how green, and with what a misty, lowering sky.

They weighed anchor late in the afternoon, and Aherne lowered a boat to the mainland. Markham and his landing party set out to assess the situation. Ceindrych and her women would go with them, since it was her own brother they were going to visit.

They had a long walk to the settlement of the Erainn before them. Markham had jotted down a map on their last visit, and they made their way through the long grass, through the woods, until they approached the little fortified hill that was their destination. Along the way, they saw a few huts of turf and rock, and were timidly greeted by the folk in them. One young woman rushed up and thrust a loaf of flattish oatbread into Ceindrych's hands, with a nod, and a whispered, friendly word.

There was a shout: they had been seen. Markham felt a little concern. He had been treated well enough on his last visit—more than well, considering how he and Ceindrych had hit it off, but it never paid to let down your guard.

But he need not have worried. Cathal, King of the Erainn, came out of his big longhouse and strode down to greet him. His wife was beside him, of course, looking glum. It crossed Markham's mind that she might think he had come to give Ceindrych back.

With them, looking thinner, was Kathleen Mackie. Wrapped in a thick woolen ruana, she could have been taken for one of the Erainn herself. She was surrounded by a crowd of women, obviously her entourage. She broke into a big smile of relief, as she hurried down with the King and Queen to meet them.

"You're all right!" Markham exclaimed. "They'll all be happy to hear it at home! I imagine the King will want to feast us, but get your things together so we can leave as soon as possible! You need some real food!"

Ceindrych was embracing her brother, and preening a little as she displayed her rich, green woolen gown, her jewelry, her beautifully made hooded cape. As a subtle joke, Caitlin had made her one based on a much later Irish style, a Kinsale-style cloak, with its flattering and exquisite lines. Ceindrych had even brought her sewing box, to show her brother and all the women of the Erainn the wealth of her husband's people, and how generous they were to her and her women.

Yes, they were gods, she told them. They had mighty powers, but were neither cruel nor capricious. Her husband had never raised a hand to her. The King and Queen had welcomed her like a daughter, and all of them were being taught their wisdom. She lived in luxury in their magnificent palace. She had gifts for them, and would show some of her new skills.

But they too had news for her. Their visitor, the good witch, was teaching them lore as well. No, they had nothing as fine as Ceindrych's sewing tools, but they too were being taught to spin on the sacred wheel, to sew with many kinds of stitches, and to knit warm cloth with the bone needles. These gods brought great gifts, and they did not wish Kathleen to leave them. She had the power of healing, and it would bring them misfortune, surely.

And to Markham's surprise, Kathleen was not particularly eager to leave herself. "They need me, Drew. I'm doing good work here. Women visit from lots of the other tribes, and they're listening to me."

"Uh, Kathleen," he replied, concerned. "Have you looked at yourself lately? I don't mean to be rude, but you're really not looking very healthy. You need food and a decent night's sleep in an actual bed, and a—"

"—A bath. Yes, I know. At least I've gotten them to improve the way they dispose of their waste. I'm just about out of my medical supplies. What did you bring me?"

They talked more, over the roasted meats set before them at the King's table. They crowded together in the flickering light of the firepit, the rooftree above them grimy with soot. It was early spring, and the game animals were thin and tough. There was some oatbread, and some beer. Markham took the opportunity to present the gifts that had been prepared: a barrel of good Madeira wine, a big wheel of soft yellow cheese, a great basket of fruit (the pineapples were devoured with delight, the bananas more uneasily. Markham did not comprehend that they were perceived as a manifestation of male fertility).

There was splendid gold brooch for the King, and for his wife, something Polly Ferguson called a "housewife:" a soft envelope of cloth—in this case, a rich red velvet—that enclosed a sewing kit. While not as splendid as Ceindrych's, it was still superior to any woman other than Kathleen's; containing five needles, a gold thimble, a packet of pins, five spools of various colored thread, exquisite scissors of silver, and a measure.

King Cathal questioned Markham about their plans. A market would be declared, to be held on the little island the King had granted his friends the Atlanteans. It was a poor place, but since they wanted land by the sea in the inlet, it was the best he could do. Markham assured him that the island was perfectly suitable for their needs, and that they were going to build on it, a dock for their ships, and perhaps a building for their goods, and a lodging for the times they would stay.

When the Committee received the report, two days later, there were some serious decisions to be made. The Erainn were very unhappy with the idea of Kathleen leaving: unhappy enough that it might compromise future relations. Markham was encouraged to invite the king and his chosen followers to visit the island he had given them, to be the guest of the Atlanteans, and to find a resolution to their differences.

It was Diana who suggested the obvious way out of their dilemma. If Kathleen wished to stay and teach the Hibernian tribes, she should be able to do it in comfort. A house would be built for her on the little island, where she could live with proper conveniences. It should be large enough to house those she was teaching, as well.

Lyudmilla agreed. "It will make her a little more independent, while still being close to the Erainn. We should get on it right away. However, it should be a matter of record that this does not mean that we feel we have any further claims on Irish soil. We don't want to send future generations the idea that this is a foothold for colonization!"

Tavington refrained from observing that there was more than one way to colonize a people. Kathleen's friendship and high standing with this tribe, and Markham's ties by marriage, would indeed create a certain bond. Foundations would be laid, not just for a house, or a dock, but for a long and fruitful connection, he hoped.

And so, they got to work. All their construction resources were immediately diverted to the little island in the harbor. A structure that had been planned for Big Chocolate was to be built right away in Ireland. A huge gate was opened, machines dispatched to dig foundations and a well, and drive pilings for a dock that could even accommodate the _Enterprise_, as well as smaller craft.

The house itself, two storied, and solidly built, would showcase chimneys (unknown to the world in this time), running water, and a septic field for waste disposal. Everyone was quite excited about the new project, and pointed out that the little outpost would be a place for ideas that could improve the locals' way of life.

Jack Gronewald wanted to create a miniature farm. "Only an acre or two, but it would teach modern crop rotation, and feature all sorts of new foods that should do well in the climate."

Some young fruit trees were transplanted, and a garden laid out. Artisans contributed furnishings and things of beauty. And Dieter gated in to discuss security features of the little outpost with Markham. They were of one mind on the matter, and the defenses would be passive and nearly invisible, but highly effective.

By the time the Erainn came upon the scene, the house was nearly complete. The tribe watched in awe from the other bank of the river as the buildings grew as if by magic. Markham assured the King that the Atlanteans wanted no other land. They had more than enough of their own: but they could trade with their friends from here, and welcome them as guests, and Kathleen would live and teach in this place nearby, so that they could always call on her at need. And some of their poor-- dowerless daughters, young men seeking adventure and land of their own-- were welcome to journey to the mysterious land of the Atlanti, to seek their fortune.

Diana and Tavington came in person to see the site for themselves, and brought the children along. There was a happy reunion with Kathleen, and Diana took her aside for a long talk.

Later, she told Tavington, "The secure room for gating is a wonderful idea. We can visit her often, and she won't feel isolated that way. And Gretchen wants to monitor her health situation."

Emily wandered away briefly, and was seen conversing with one of the young girls of the Erainn, who had ferried over for a visit. Their foster daughter had learned quite a bit of the language from Ceindrych and her special friend among the maids, Aoife. When they returned home to the Town Hall, she seemed very thoughtful, and went to her room without saying anything more.

-----

Yes, they were all busy: and all full of ideas. Jennifer was particularly eager to find new projects. She was, for obvious reasons, looking markedly less skeletal. In fact, she was glowing, happy, and inspired. Her newest idea involved a voyage to their island neighbors, the uninhabited Azores.

"Michael can complain about them all he likes. We _will_ have people living there someday, and so we should do a good survey, and plant some trees. That's what the Spanish did. Whenever they visited a new island, they would seed some fruit trees, so that when people came there to live, they found good things already provided for them."

Michael weighed in with the volcanic history of the islands, and finally agreed that settlement was not impossible. He would take core samples, and see which were safest from that standpoint. "And the soil will be fertile, at least. Volcanic islands nearly always are."

It took only two days from New Atlantis to reach the Azores. The cruise was pleasant and leisurely. Everyone was impressed favorably by the islands. They might sit on the junction of three continental plates, but even with the threat of earthquake, these were The Fortunate Isles indeed. Flowery as their own Atlantis, but with their own quirks: mountain lakes, hot springs, blue grottoes.

Nine habitable islands, the largest of which was as big as their own. They were easily reached by sailing vessels. There was plenty of room for their people to expand. Jennifer, looking like a pregnant fertility goddess, was busily planting on all the islands. Within a decade there would be mature orchards on all them. Diana alluded to the goddess Pomona, the lady of the orchards; or joked kindly about Johnny Appleseed.

Jennifer planted especially carefully on the island the Portuguese had for good reason named Flores. It was a magical place. There, one day, they came upon a slope of many-colored hydrangeas that captured the heart. They sat down there, watching the clouds for a timeless moment, and left reluctantly, not able to speak of it.

Tavington decided that once this little jaunt was over, Jennifer must really get some rest. Accordingly, he called on her the day after their return, ready to gently command her temporary retirement from her many activities. Surprisingly, she seemed inclined to agree.

"I feel like I can settle down for awhile, now that I've done something about the Azores. They were really preying on my mind. I kept thinking about them, so close, and so uncared for." She laughed at herself. "Listening to me babbling. But really, aren't they beautiful? And in years to come, we can settle them, one at a time. I wish I could see it. And someday, New Zealand. Such beautiful places for our grandchildren to live…" She was silent for a little while, smiling in a little reverie.

Tavington sat with her in her little bare sitting room, and acknowledged that she seemed much more comfortable with him as her time approached. A natural instinct, of course. And the room itself was no longer quite so bare. It was full of projects, and was decorated with potted plants of all sorts, though many were high on ledges. She saw his glance around the room.

"All the toxic plants are out of reach. I remember my mother telling me how I scared her when I was a baby. She didn't know I could crawl, and she turned her back on me, and right away I made a beeline for an orchid in bloom and started stuffing the flowers into my mouth. She didn't know if they would kill me or not, and she called the doctor, and he just laughed at her. She used to say that she knew then that I would always love flowers…."

She was silent again. Finally, she said, "I miss my mother. You know I'm going to have a girl."

He nodded. Gretchen had informed him of it some time ago.

Jennifer said softly, "I've decided to name her Lily, after my mother. I wish she were here to see this baby."

"We all miss our mothers, Jennifer," Tavington replied. He pulled his chair closer, and took her hand. "At least they will live on in our children."

-----

Before the _Enterprise_ could set out for its latest adventure, Ferguson returned from a visit on the Ides of May to announce that Caesar Marcus Aurelius wished to visit them.

"And it appears it willna be a courtesy call of a quarter-hour. He really wants to see more of our clever lads and lassies. He's heard of the Observatory, and he wants to know if our medical students are making progress. And it seems his brother Caesar, Lucius, wants to come as well."

"Probably to flirt with Lesley and stuff himself with chocolate," Tavington snorted.

"Oh, he's young, surely, but not a bad sort. And dinna forget, Will, that he _may not_ die young this time!"

It had, in fact, occurred to Tavington, as well as to the historians, that they were already changing history. While no one knew for certain what had killed Lucius Verus, there was a possibility that modern medicine might save him. In any case, it was prudent to establish friendly ties with both the Caesars.

The historians had been meeting in closed, special sessions recently. Diana brooded after the meetings, lost in thought. She and Marianne, with Alan and Keith, had a constant running debate going. Whenever they saw one another, it would start again, the murmurings, the anxious speculation.

When quizzed about the subject of their discussions, Diana finally said, "The Imperial Succession, of course. Even if Verus dies, we'll have twenty years of Marcus Aurelius, twenty of the best-governed years not only in the history of the Roman Empire, but of any place on earth. But he's going to be assailed with a mountain of difficulties: a plague, political trouble in Armenia, invasions across the German border."

She pulled a volume from her personal bookshelf, and opened it to a marked page. "And then, to cap it off, he leaves the Empire in the hands of a manifestly unqualified heir."

"His son, Commodus."

"Yes. And it's downhill for the Empire from that point. Oh, it lasts for hundred of years, and there are triumphs along with the tragedies. But with Commodus' misgovernment and assassination, there's never again a long period of enlightened rule. The succession becomes determined by the whim of the Praetorian Guards, by murder and violence: the thread of legitimacy is broken forever. And the Empire shrinks, constantly on the defensive." She sat back frowning.

"He's coming for dinner the day after tomorrow."

"He? Who?"

Tavington laughed at her puzzlement. "Marcus Aurelius and his adoptive brother, Lucius Verus, as well. They want to visit and to pry a little, in their well-bred and discreet way."

Diana was not much amused. "Maybe they'll find out things they never wanted to know." Again lost in thought, she said she needed to talk to Alan, and headed off to his office in the Laboratory, giving Tavington and the children absent-minded kisses, clearly preoccupied.

But by the day of their guests' visit, she was herself, and in particularly good spirits. Tavington supposed that she had sorted out some intellectual problem that had been troubling her. On asking her, she told him frankly what she had decided would be best; and later, after heated debate, the Committee was brought around to her point of view.

And the Caesars very much enjoyed their visit: exploring the school, touring the Laboratory (a small portion of it anyway). Their official visit to the medical college was a great event for the students. They wandered through the Museum, not understanding much, but pausing before the skeleton of a monstrous creature. While Michael gave an interested Marcus Aurelius a lecture on the immense age of the earth, Marianne brought out colored pictures of more dinosaurs for an enraptured Lucius Verus.

And of course, there was the state dinner that night. The Caesars were not unaccustomed to sitting a table, rather than reclining. They often did so when on campaign, or in the country.

For the meal, Summer had given some thought to showing off the produce of New Atlantis, and to exposing their visitors to unusual foods. Thus, the Caesars tasted a rich concoction of avocados, fascinated with the idea of a kind of cheese that grew on trees. They experienced pasta for the first time: tender linguine (considerately cut short by Summer) tossed with a delicate white clam sauce, and they were taught to eat it in the Atlantean style. To showcase other uses of chocolate, there was a savory dish of chicken in mole sauce. There was soft, light bread, there were unknown vegetables, the most interesting to the Romans being the potatoes roasted in olive oil and rosemary.

There were exotic fruits: papayas and mangoes, bananas and kiwi. There was crème brulee, which greatly amused Lucius Verus.

"I like to crack the top," he said, with a delighted smile, tapping the crusty sugar glaze with a silver spoon.

The dinner, though elegant and plentiful, did not attempt to rival the opulence and excess of a Roman feast. That style seemed vulgar and distasteful to Summer, and she thought it pointless to compete with something she personally disapproved of.

The Romans, however, were not disappointed. The novelties were interesting enough for Lucius, and his brother Marcus was well entertained, discussing the various foods, and wondering which could be grown successfully in their own lands. He struck up a lengthy conversation with the agronomist, Jack Gronewald, and obtained a promise from the scholar to visit Rome and advise them about improved farming methods and the cultivation of the potato.

After the skies grew darker, there was a pleasant stroll up to the Observatory, where the Alexandrian Claudius Ptolemy was presented to the Caesars, and where Julie Kolb displayed her telescopes. Luckily, it was the night of a first quarter moon, which proved an excellent beginning subject for observing through a telescope.

The craters, the maria, the valleys: everything was observed with awe and fascination. They wanted to study her moon maps and learn the names of some of the larger features. They stayed quite late, in fact, getting a good general introduction to the theory of modern astronomy, some of which was comprehensible, and some of which was a mighty puzzlement.

She showed them the round forms of the planets, the rings of Saturn, double stars, globular clusters glittering in the dark sky like little diamonds scattered on blue velvet, spiral galaxies—island universes like their own, unthinkably vast, and unimaginably distant.

By the time they left the Observatory, both young men were over-stimulated and exhausted. They were welcomed back into the comfort of the room of state at the Atlantean Capitol. They sank gratefully into the luxurious chairs, which were cushioned and covered with velvet. Marcus smiled tolerantly as his brother dozed off almost immediately. He himself was tired, but not entirely willing for the evening to end.

At a little writing table near him, the Lady Diana was paging slowly through one of their codices. He rose, wishing to get a better look. He had not had more than a glimpse of the printing press, but was enthusiastic about the beauty and clarity of the writing. Every letter was the same: the spacing was exquisite. The margins were pure, and more even than the work of the best scribes. The press could do the work of hundreds of copyists, and do it perfectly every time. The beauty of the codex was such that he did not immediately notice the substance of the words. They were in good Latin, and once comprehended, they struck him like a thunderbolt.

_"The mildness of Marcus, which the rigid discipline of the Stoics was unable to eradicate, formed, in the same time, the most amiable, and the only defective, part of his character. His excellent understanding was often deceived by the unsuspecting goodness of his heart. Artful men, who study the passions of princes, and conceal their own, approached his person in the disguise of philosophic sanctity, and acquired riches and honours by affecting to despise them…It has been objected to Marcus, that he sacrificed the happiness of millions to a fond partiality for a worthless boy…"_

He gasped, unable to control the shock. The lady looked him gravely in the eye, with the wisdom of countless ages in her glance. His fate was written in this book! Her husband the prince was watching him with concern.

With an effort, Marcus found his voice, "Is this what must be?"

"No," she murmured gently. "Nothing is unalterable." With a mysterious smile, she told him, "Even the smallest person can change the course of the future." She laughed softly, and added, "And so how much more a Caesar."

"You came to help me," he said, full of wonder. "I always knew it, somehow."

The tall Prince of the Atlanti, William Tavington, clad in red, armed like a soldier as was always his custom, smiled coolly. "We shall help one another, and our future will be the better for it."

-----

**Epilogue:**

(Letter from Gaius Ulpius Naso to Lucius Didius, continued)

_And so, my dear Lucius, if I survive my imprisonment at all, I am to be exiled to a minor outpost in Lower Moesia, facing the barbarians across the Danube. While I do not dare accuse the Divine Emperor of injustice, I can say to you what I did to him: whatever I did, I did with the best intentions. No doubt I shall never trust a superior as I did Marcus Vinicius. _

_As to the Governor's fate, it is unknown. Still broken in spirit, if healed in body, I was taken by the Atlanti and thrust through a door of blue light. I was seized by more of the accursed race, and when I was dragged out of their habitation, I saw to my wonder, that I was in Rome. They took me to the Palace, and surrendered me to the Emperor's judgement. I inquired about Vinicius, but neither Atlanti nor Roman would speak of it. One can only presume that he, the Western Fleet, and the entire 31st Legion were lost. It haunts me, haunts me to imagine the terrible manner in which they met their deaths. _

_However, I was warned by Caesar Marcus Aurelius to say nothing of this. I could not bear to hold these secrets inside me, and so I have confided in you, my old friend. But perhaps it would be best if you did not allow this letter to fall into indiscreet hands. When this letter finally reaches you, and you have read it, I urge you to burn it. I would not have you lose everything, as I have. _

_Apparently the Atlanti remain in high favor with the Emperor. Their physicians visit both Rome and Alexandria regularly, appearing mysteriously in houses that the Emperor, and that over-refined, grecophil governor of Egypt have bestowed upon them. They have even inveigled some poor fools to travel to their perilous island. _

_I must confess that other Romans have been released by them: I received word eventually that my unhappy men, who were taken prisoner at the Battle at the Pillars of Hercules, were abandoned on the desolate shore of Africa, and fought their way back to civilization. A handful of wounded men returned as well: at least ten abruptly appeared in a deserted alley in Gades. _

_While I was a prisoner in the hands of the Atlanti, I was convinced they were gods. Now, so far away, I am not so certain. Demi-gods, perhaps: minor deities who have resolved to interfere with our affairs. Their influence is spreading: that damnable "white lightning" that they once gave me has made its appearance. Any soldier who can persuade a coppersmith to make him a piece of spiral tubing can "distill" the monstrous stuff. Even the wild barbarians desire it, though they are easily stupefied by the smallest amounts. That at least has been useful to those on the frontier._

_I take comfort from the fact that they have made no inroads on many good old Roman customs, despite their haughty contempt for them. The public still wants its Games, and slavery is in no danger of being abolished. At least in my lifetime, I do not fear the complete corruption of everything that makes us Romans. _

Vale, _then, dear old friend. I give you a last piece of advice: shun these strangers as you would a noxious disease. They are an evil influence, and may they long stay far away from all decent Roman citizens! _

_The most unfortunate, _

_Gaius Ulpius Naso_

Lucius Didius reread the epistle, laughing a little to himself. _Gaius was always reluctant to embrace anything new. Poor, poor fellow._ He rose, and went over to the brazen tripod, which gave the opulent tablinium its welcome warmth. Carefully, he laid the parchment over the burning coals and watched it catch fire. The letters curled, distorted, and with a faint odor of burning skin, turned to ash. _There._ All was safe.

He returned to his desk, needing to continue with the business at hand. He sat, and sipped thoughtfully at the delicious Atlantean wine, held in an etched goblet of heavenly blue, exquisitely thin glass. Before him was a book, sent to him from the Emperor himself. He would study it, and soon he would begin mastering the exotic and divine language that held so many wonderful secrets. Lucius felt that a moment of self-congratulation was in order. He, at least, had never feared the future.

-----

**Finis **

**----- **

**Notes:** Epidauros was the site of a famous temple of Aesculapius, the god of healing. People traveled from all over the world for cures.

In my opinion, Kinsale cloaks are the most beautiful ever devised. Google them and see for yourself. The Hibernian tribesmen who saw her in her cloak certainly admired it. Perhaps that is why a new folk tale spread slowly into the interior of the island in the next few years, and across the narrow sea to Britain, along with other rumors. Perhaps you can imagine the story of "How Ceindrych the King's Daughter Went to Faery" for yourselves.

Diana had translated and printed for Marcus Aurelius a few pages of Chapter Four of Edward Gibbons' _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire._

Thank you, my readers. I hope you have enjoyed this (lengthy) time-travel adventure!


End file.
